The Last Leaf
by persevera
Summary: The story OHenry might have written: Sue and Johnsy are beginning their life together and attracting the attention of others-some welcome, some not. Secret love is further complicated by obsession, suitors, illness and even voyeurism. Can someone be redeemed from a despicable act?
1. Chapter 1

Greenwich Village, New York City, in the early years of the 20th Century—a haven for artists, writers, philosophers, and those seeking cover for atypical lifestyles.

Johnsy and Sue had talked about moving there since meeting each other as roommates in their second year at Vassar Women's College.

Now, here they were.

They looked like coordinating hourglasses in the de rigeur costume for forward-thinking women of the era—long, flared skirt that showed the top of short boots, a high-necked shirtwaist emphasizing the exaggerated curve of the midriff and cropped jacket with shoulder pads and a little straw hat.

The prospective landlord smiled obsequiously as he led them through the dimly-lit, dusty hallway to the first floor apartment on the left side of the brownstone building.

Johnsy, a painter with indulgent parents, was thrilled with the sunlight and view from the far window. It was almost park-like, with a well-tended lawn, some flower beds and an impressive maple tree, situated in the recess of the L-shaped building.

Sue, who hoped to be a lawyer, liked the other end of the room, with an isolated nook that would just fit her old reading table. It would be perfect for studying.

Between their favored spots were a kitchen area with a sink and wood stove and small wooden table, a fireplace on the right wall with two lumpy, mismatched chairs in front of it and in the far right corner—an iron bedstead.

Sue moved to that area to check the bed. "What are those little holes in the ceiling?" she asked, demonstrating her attention to detail that could make her an excellent attorney, if given the chance.

"Oh, that," Mr. Behrman said with a half-hearted chuckle as he barreled his way to her side. Brushing off the nickel-sized dents, he explained, "I asked the previous tenant about it. He said he was experimenting with ways to set up some kind of fan over the bed. As you can see though, there's no dust from them. They're clean holes and shouldn't cause you any trouble."

Sue locked her hazel, bespectacled eyes on him critically. "When do you plan to fill them?"

"I'll get to it as soon as I can," Mr. Behrman said, passing a hand over the steel grey hair that clung to his scalp and then fell to his neck, like matted tassel. "Until then, I'll take 10 percent off of your rent. Is that satisfactory?"

Johnsy gave him the most devastating from her arsenal of smiles, the one reserved for someone who had made her life better. "That's a wonderful deal, isn't it, Sue?" she squealed, impulsively grasping the other woman's arm.

Sue glanced up at Johnsy then scurried to the kitchen area, making a show of testing the creaking water pump. "Alright," she said decisively, "we'll take it, Mr…."

"Just call me Old Behrman," the landlord said.

Sue nodded. "If you don't mind, we'd like to spend a few minutes here alone, then we'll come and find you to sign the lease."

He grinned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Then, with more vigor than his florid complexion or baggy pants would have suggested, he raced up the stairs to his own apartment, directly above the young women's room.

With the door closed, Sue and Johnsy hurried into each others' arms.

"Isn't it wonderful, Sue?" exclaimed Johnsy as Sue kissed her neck and lips, "It's all ours. We'll be so happy together," she continued through kisses. "It will be just the two of us."

Overhead Old Behrman struggled to control his heaving breaths as he swept aside the faded rug in the center of his darkened room. He lowered arthritic knees to the floor, pocked with holes about twice the size of those noticed by Sue. "Yessss," he said hoarsely, eyeing the girls, "just the two of you."


	2. Chapter 2

The evening was balmy and still light and Old Behrman was on his way to his favorite tavern. He hadn't been in two weeks, since Johnsy and Sue had moved into their apartment. he said to himself.

Johnsy had told him that she would be gone that evening, which left Sue by herself studying and he had no interest in observing or sketching that, so, off to the tavern.

Though from an artist's perspective, Behrman had to admit that Sue had a perfect profile and that she filled out her Gibson Girl skirts and shirtwaists better than the taller and more angular Johnsy. In most circles, Sue would have been considered beautiful, but she paled next to her roommate and she liked it that way.

Johnsy's face was mesmerizing. Her skin was creamy and her eyes a glassy blue under the fronds of her long eyelashes that, like the eyebrows, were darker than her sunny blonde hair. She usually wore her hair down with a big schoolgirl bow but tonight, Behrman had watched from his peephole, as she'd transformed herself into a sophisticated young woman, donning a yellow silk and lace gown and pinning her hair in a voluminous updo.

She'd told him that her parents were visiting and she was having dinner with them at their hotel in Manhattan.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," she promised Sue, standing at the door of their apartment in a sustained embrace. "Will you leave a candle lit for me?"

"Always," Sue answered in a muffle as she nuzzled the wide expanse of the taller woman's neckline. She never got over her fascination with Johnsy's skin. No matter how long she was in the North, it still carried a trace of California sun. "Now go be a dutiful daughter." Sue said, lifting her head for a final kiss, "I have studying to do."

The women adopted their public detachment as they walked toward the front door of the house, daring one last brush of hands as Johnsy went outside and Sue moved to the drawing room, where her borrowed books on New York property laws awaited her.

An elaborate carriage with a fold-down top and silver scrollwork, pulled by a pair of black horses, came to pick up Johnsy. The silver rimmed wheels bumped along the cobblestone streets of the Village, causing her to bounce in her seat and repeatedly adjust the forward tilt on her wide-brimmed Gainesborough hat. The ride became smoother with the transition to the granite setts of the city that gave the horses surer, more comfortable footing, and saved Johnsy's coiffure.

She watched as pedestrian traffic seemed to diminish from hurried throng along hot, dusty streets, to a more sedate and leisurely stroll under carefully-tended, tree-lined walkways. The clattering transport from the Village to Manhattan gave her time for adjustment also, from independent, sexually-experienced bohemian, to dutiful daughter.

Johnsy took a deep breath as the carriage approached the hotel, glancing up at the marquee with its name, Waldorf-Astoria, engraved and gilded. The doorman who helped her with her graceful descent from the vehicle and the elevator operator who whoosed her to her parents' floor each received a demure smile from her arsenal.

She met John and Laura Sinclair in their elegantly-appointed suite, standing in front of the unlit fireplace, as though posing for a photograph on the society page.

Her father, still long and lean, spun her around after she'd playfully twirled the ends of his sandy handlebar mustache. "You look lovely, Johnsy," he said, calling her the nickname he'd given her as a six-year-old tomboy.

"Yes, Joanna," said her more reserved mother, whom Johnsy mirrored, except for the gray streaks in her hair, "you look very beautiful, though I believe your décolletage is a little daring for dinner with your family, but I brought you a new stole that should cover you nicely."

"Thank you, Mother," said Johnsy tolerantly, after catching her father's wink. "It's perfect," she added, as Mrs. Sinclair draped the sprig-patterned silk garment over her shoulders. "Are we going downstairs to the restaurant now? I'm starving."

"In just a moment," her mother said patting the space next to her on the rococo settee, "Why don't we sit and talk?"

Johnsy joined her mother on the red velvet sofa and glanced around the suite. The sitting room alone was twice as large as her apartment and, with its rich furnishings and extravagant touches, like silk brocade wallpaper, epitomized gilded age opulence. The combination of newspaper publishing and orange groves certainly had been beneficial to the Sinclairs.

It was something that she might not have been attuned to before, but with her current experience in the diverse, less affluent community, she saw the room for the excess it represented.

Maybe she could enlighten them. She began to tell her parents about her neighborhood, her daily walks and the people she'd met. "I see something new every day, wonderful subjects for my paintings."

Her mother's smile was steady and indulgent, but her eyes kept slanting toward the door, as if waiting for someone. She rose quickly with a sly smile at the sound of a knock and returned on the arm of a broad-shouldered, dark-haired young man. He shared a firm handshake with Mr. Sinclair, then, with a big smile, held out his arms for Johnsy.

"Georgie!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet in happy surprise.

The clock in the hallway ticked away the minutes that Sue spent alone in the silent parlor. Their neighbor, Mr. Graham, was in his apartment on the other side of the house but he was such a recluse, that she might as well be all alone. She sat curled on the Victorian sofa in the center of the room with the heavy book in her lap, occasionally looking out the windows behind her for the carriage.

She sipped her tea from the mug that she'd brought with her from home and glanced indifferently at the art on the walls. The gas chandelier over her head caught the gilt of the framed pictures and shadowed the chairs that sat against the windows, allowing her eyes to naturally return there.

She found it difficult to concentrate on contracts and easements, as Johnsy established eminent domain in her mind. That gold dress was perfect with her coloring and she smelled so lovely, much too good for dinner with her parents.  
>Sue turned the page of the statute book, trying not to let her thoughts wander to other possibilities, but the twinge of worry and jealousy couldn't be dislodged. It had been that way for her from the beginning, with her possessiveness as strong as her desire.<p>

_Squatters' rights_, she read, trying again to resume her studying. There was a price to pay for loving someone like Johnsy, feeling as though she had to fight both men and women for her, never being able to be confident that her ardor was returned. Only the woman herself made that worthwhile.

She closed her eyes and remembered the first time that she'd held her, that cold night at Vassar. "We Northerners know all about body heat," she'd said, offering to share her bed and huge patchwork quilt with her thin-blooded and beautiful roommate.

"You can really see and hear them pleasuring each other?" asked Olson, an unsuccessful sculptor.

"All the time," Behrman answered gloatingly. Olson shook his head in amazement, releasing some of the stone's dust from his current project to sprinkle on the table like dandruff.

"There's something I wanted to ask you about," Behrman said, turning to Peters, a thin, already-balding young man who eked out a living as a portrait photographer. "Are there any lenses I could use to improve the view?"

Peters, enjoying his moment of attention, prolonged it by leaning back and rubbing his chin in thought. "I've been experimenting with some different kinds. I could let you try them, if I can watch too," he said, his eyes nearly glazing with excitement.

Behrman scowled at him, as though offended, "My girls aren't to leer at; they're art."  
>Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that, said Peters to himself. . Out loud he asked, "Well then, can you show us your drawings?"<p>

Behrman was very proud of his work. "Maybe," he tempered himself, "when it's finished."

Mae Campbell weaved her way through the smoky room and approached the round table where Behrman and his cronies sat, carrying a fresh pitcher of beer. Behrman patted her well-cushioned hip. "Maybe the old girl here will buy it for display."

Mae glanced at him, still seeing the dashing young painter he was more than 30 years ago, when she was his model and muse. "I might," she said, "if you get their permission."

Behrman rolled his eyes. It was an argument that he and Mae had begun decades ago and would never reconcile.

"Without asking my permission, Behrman," she'd said in a hurt voice, as he rapped the nude he'd done of her while she slept to take to a client, "you're stealing from me."

He'd brushed off that idea then; he did so now, still believing that the chance to be immortalized in a great painting was something any woman should want, whether she knew it or not.

But he was fond of Mae. No woman had meant anything to him though, since the death of his Christina ten years earlier.

Mae studied him and asked, "Is one of these girls tall and blonde with big blue eyes?"

"Yes," he answered uncomfortably, acknowledging that she'd described not only Johnsy, but Christina as well.

Behrman had met her in the park. Her affluent family lived on the north side of Washington Square, while Frank had a small apartment and studio in the artists' community on the west side. She was eighteen; he was twenty-five.

Christina had agreed to pose for him…in the park. He'd taken his sketchbook and pencils every day. She'd begun dressing with more care, playing with different hairstyles, posing at home in front of the mirror so that she could know what expressions or positions might be most pleasing to him. Once they'd had the perfect combination of costume, pose and theme, he'd begun bringing his easel and paints. He'd given the finished picture to her as an engagement present.

Their wedding was a Village event, bringing the divergent groups of the neighborhood together—intelligentsia and laborers, rich and poor, bohemian and establishment. They'd thrown a big party afterwards in the newly-purchased L-shaped house with the pretty side yard, a wedding present from Christina's family.

Soon after their nuptials, Mae Fraley had married Mr. Campbell, an older man who had been enchanted with her from one of Behrman's paintings of her. They weren't in love, but still happy, until he'd died after just a couple of years, leaving Mae to carry her still-burning torch for Behrman.

Mae had converted their small house into the tavern. She kept an apartment in the back—light, airy and immaculate.

The public rooms, dominated by smoke and the fumes from alcohol for the last twenty-five years, were musty and dingy. Her clientele of aging, down-on-their-luck artists, like Behrman, appreciated the gritty atmosphere. They added layers to it, with the smoke from their fat cigars and more frequently spilled drinks, leaving alcohol stains on the wood plank floor and the yeasty, slightly rotting smells that couldn't be scrubbed away.

Even the artwork in the bar, contributed by patrons who couldn't settle their tab, had a sooty, seen-better-days quality, all but her painting that Mr. Campbell had bought from Behrman. It was more modest than most of his art that featured her, revealing just a slightly rounded white shoulder, but her frank green-eyed expression hinted at much more. Mae dusted and cleaned it daily so that its colors, while faded, were the most pure thing in the room and her auburn-haired youth and beauty still radiated from it.

Behrman had another beer with the table and then, as had been his custom for years, stopped drinking just before the point that he would be staggering for the short walk home. In front of his house he saw the carriage from earlier that evening, now with the top fastened. The driver looked comfortably reclined, as if he had been there a while. The sky was dark, with a sliver of moon and few stars. With illumination from a gas streetlamp, Behrman could see the inside of the carriage and a handsome, olive-skinned man with his arms around Johnsy.

"And the plot thickens, as Mr, Graham would say," Behrman noted wryly to himself, absorbing the details of the scene for drawing later. On the far left side of the house, in the girls' room, he noticed the window suddenly become black, a light having been extinguished.


	3. Chapter 3

It was so important to get the shading under the breasts right. And the arc. He had to make sure that it wasn't too deep, giving the impression that Johnsy was more buxom than she actually was, not as much as Christina had been.

Behrman sat at the table in his upper-floor apartment, transferring a sketch of his favorite tenants onto canvas. He had the frame propped up on the table, as his arthritic knees could only bear standing for so long. Candles flickered around him, it being very early, and the sun only beginning to warm the glass panes on the back wall, but not yet give light. The faint greyish whiteness of dawn crept up on the windows, as if peeking to share in Behrman's covert appreciation of his subjects.

Sue was easy to paint, a curving half form from behind, her high, firm buttocks a gentle ivory tone, with the waves of her long brown hair falling just at the slight protrusion of the shoulder blade.

Behrman took another sip of water from a speckled tin cup on the table, then cleared his throat and ran a paint-streaked hand over his brow and side of his face.

She approached the bed on which Johnsy lay. Behrman turned his eyes back to his original sketch, using a long finger to trace that beautiful line. It began with Johnsy's arm thrown seductively behind her head and over the swell of her small breast, to the indent of her waist. Her body twisted slightly to welcome Sue and his finger followed the contour of her hips and thighs to the bend in her knee.

He smiled, wondering if Johnsy was ticklish behind her knees, as his wife had been. The pad of his finger rested there a moment and twitched, as though he were teasing a giggle from her.

He shrugged out of the brown, holey sweater made by Christina years ago and drank from the cup again, replenishing his dry mouth, then licking his dryer lips.

Behrman concentrated on the splash of flaxen hair on the pillows and the years fell away, as he remembered Christina's blonde locks splayed over their bed.

Glancing over at the full length mirror next to his oaken wardrobe, he imagined himself standing in front of it, proud and erect, with a well-muscled physique and dark skin.

In his mind he moved to the bed where his bride lay, eighteen and trembling. Her eyes were a blue that he had perfected, with the color he used for a base in clear-day skies and a dash of white. He achieved their shape by making a circle, then pinching it on the outside.

Ah, the paintings that he'd done of them together from that first night, his long body stretched over her pale softness, like leather on gossamer. He usually made her hands into tight little fists against the top of his back, as she lay with her arms around his neck, gasping, moaning and begging him to teach her more.

Behrman bent his greying head over his palette to return to his work. The light source in the painting was a single candle on the table next to the bed. Its glow shimmered on Johnsy and traced Sue's body. She appeared to have moved closer, almost able to touch the other woman. And didn't she know how touch her!

The old man shifted in his seat, hearing again the sounds from the night that he'd done this sketch, so similar to those he could coax out of Christina.

With his paintbrush, he dragged a bit of red into his light mauve and swirled them together until he had the color he wanted, about the same as a pomegranate seed. He touched it on the chest area with his paint brush and lifted up, creating a little point. Yes, that was the color and look of the nipples that he remembered after Sue had worked her magic.

He'd had a hint of them himself, that day last week, when Johnsy had asked him to pose for her. He grinned, thinking about it. He'd been a most difficult subject, requiring her to lean over him because he just wasn't able to understand how she wanted him to sit.

"Now just look toward the house, Mr. Behrman," she'd instructed after positioning him just so on the bench in the side yard.

Oops! His hat falling again when he'd scratched his eyebrow. It wasn't as though he could retrieve it when he was posing, so Johnsy had set down her drawing paper and gotten it for him. He'd let out a slow, appreciative breath behind her back as she'd bent to pick it up, calculating almost exactly the measurement of her hips and thighs—information that he would use in future drawings of her.

"Thank you," he'd said with a rueful smile, glad that he still had all of his teeth, when she'd plopped it back on his head. She'd favored him with a long-suffering grin and, unwittingly, another pleasant view, in bending over again to pick up her sketch.

Behrman had watched her technique. She held her drawing pens too tightly. It would restrict the feeling of movement in her subjects. Still, she'd looked sweet with her head bent over the paper, occasionally looking back up to him. He'd liked the way her hair kissed her cheek and how she wrinkled her nose in concentration.

"How long have you lived here, Mr. Behrman?" she'd finally asked, still busy with her pens. He'd smiled, knowing that mean that she'd completed his face but she still needed him to stay in his pose. To him, working on a single area at a time, rather than the overall picture, was the mark of an amateur.

"Over twenty-five years," he'd answered, sitting as she'd posed him, with his arm on one knee and his other hand on his hip, though he looked not at the building, but in the window of Johnsy and Sue's apartment. He dropped a little more weight onto his knee to relieve the strain in his torso. "My wife and I were married here."

"Oh really?" she'd said, looking up. "Do you mean right here, under the tree? I think this would make a lovely spot for a wedding."

He'd felt warmth in his chest, a lump in his throat. She looked so much like Christina. "No. We were married in the parlor. I wanted to do it out here," he'd added quickly, seeing the corners of her mouth turn down and her head go back to her drawing, "but my father-in-law insisted it was more dignified inside."

"Was the brick painted white when you moved here?" she'd asked, turning her attention to the building.

"I did it," Behrman had answered, coming to stand next to her. "I painted most of the buildings around here. Made a good living at it," he'd said, smiling down at her. "I could climb like a monkey, until my knees gave out," he'd added with a sigh, rubbing his leg.

He'd been rewarded with Johnsy's giggle. "Did you have any children?" .

"Well, I gave her plenty of 'em," he'd said with a chuckle. Johnsy hadn't responded and Behrman had stopped and cleared his throat. "Christina was never able to carry them though."

Johnsy had turned toward him. "I'm so sorry," she'd said in a soft voice, laying a hand on his arm.

He'd been sure the arm had tingled. "Oh well," he'd continued with a harrumph, "maybe somebody knew what he was doing, not letting me be a father." He'd picked up his trowel and his knees had creaked back down to his flower bed.

Johnsy had tapped him on his shoulder. Looking back at her, she'd handed him the drawing. "I think you would have made a very good father," she'd said, with a sympathetic smile, before walking back into Behrman's house.

He'd looked at her sketch and nodded approvingly. She was better than he had thought.

Yes, he said, picking up the sketch sitting next to his painting, she was better than he would have imagined, except that she made him look too old. How could she have missed the cleft in his chin and he wasn't quite so wrinkled, or frumpy. But she shows promise, he said to himself. If she sees herself as a real artist, maybe she'd be willing to pose for me.

True, Behrman had always preferred to capture his subjects unawares, but the thought of her posing for him, willing to let him position her and touch her...

He took another drink from his cup.

Acutely aware of activity downstairs, he could hear Sue now, rising from the squeaky bed and beginning her quiet fumbling. Behrman knew from the times that he'd watched her that Sue would look over anxiously toward Johnsy, not wanting to disturb her very productive beauty sleep.

He heard a thump in the kitchen area, followed by a whispered epithet and smiled. Such dear girls. "I hope it never changes," he said under his breath, "that they don't let something like last night come between them. What did the young man matter anyway, probably just an old friend."

He studied his finished painting with light from the brightening window. Good, very good, but not quite a masterpiece. Soon though, as long as nothing changed. Soon.


	4. Chapter 4

It was semi-dark as Sue squinted in the small mirror to pull back her chestnut hair and pin it in a bun for work. The sun came in the window of their apartment later in the day, but she didn't want to turn on a light and disturb Johnsy. She took a glimpse of her, still asleep in their bed.

Sue had pretended to be asleep when Johnsy came into the room the previous night from her visit with her parents. Since she'd been waiting in the parlor to greet her, she'd seen her arrive in the carriage and been crushed by the sight of her lover cuddling with someone else.

Sighing now, Sue left the room and began her purposeful walk to work. She kept her head down and relived the scene from last night—Johnsy's blonde hair contrasted against the dark hair of whomever he was, the smiles between them, the familiarity.

She lifted her head at the sound of a drum. There was a group of perhaps fifteen women standing across the street, unrolling a banner demanding Votes for Women. She noticed the woman who seemed to be in charge. Tall and commanding, she was dressed the same as the others in what might have been a work outfit of ankle grazing skirt and blouse in white, but she looked as though she would be just as comfortable in a ball gown.

Walking past the group, she slapped her hand over her heart to show her support for the cause and received a smile from the leader. "Come join us," the woman offered, her grey eyes mischievous with the challenge.

Sue shook her head, pointing to the building across the street that housed the offices of Callahan &Graves, Esq. She climbed the granite steps to the dark green painted doors, proclaiming the firm established in 1880. She pushed back her shoulders and feelings. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted at work. There was just too much to stay on top of. For instance, waiting for her at the door was Leonard Collins, a young associate very eager for her arrival.

"What took you so long?" he demanded, grabbing her arm to quickly lead her through the rows of mahogany desks. Some of the young men bent over files glanced up as she passed them, alerted by her lemon verbena. They enjoyed the sight of her S-curved figure and energetic bustle, until she and Collins reached her own desk at the back of the room. "You promised me you'd help me with this brief. I need it by noon," he reminded her, running his hands through his thick blond hair with worry.

"I've already done all the research and cites," Sue assured him, removing her hat and gloves. "I'll have it typed in an hour and you can submit it as your own brilliant work...for now."

Collins' face showed relief and sheepishness, as he nodded silently and left her to it. He had promised Sue that when he received a promotion, he'd request her as a research assistant and give her partial credit for the work she'd done for him. He'd had no intention of honoring the promise when they'd first entered into their agreement. Now he worried what the clever woman might have planned to ensure it.

She squinted in the poor light from her isolated corner of the clerks' office. The light from the bare, overhead bulbs didn't quite reach her desk. The room was dark anyway, the walls lined with mahogany shelves full of statute books, bound copies of deeds and plats and clients' records. There were about thirty young men in the room with her, all dressed in mandatory starched collars and suit coats that she knew were much too hot for the summer weather.

She smirked at the thought as she sat down at the shiny black Royal typewriter. She pounded the keys, barely conscious of the way the corresponding hammers would rise to strike the paper with their individuals letters, while she continued her musings.

Johnsy wasn't committed to females, like herself, she knew that. The pretty woman just loved everyone. Sue had always known that eventually she'd lose her to someone who could offer her marriage and the children she was designed to bear and rear.

With a practiced flourish, Sue pulled the last sheet of letterhead out of the machine and Collins, who'd been standing away from her but watching anxiously, hurried over and snatched the documents without a word, not giving her a chance to remind him of their deal.

She rested her elbows on her desk. They'd talked about it. She'd asked Johnsy if it was just a "pash" for her, like with other girls at school. Johnsy had shaken her blonde head and insisted it wasn't. "I love you, Sudie," she'd assured her, lowering her head for their lips to meet. Sue closed her eyes and ran a finger on her bottom lip, recapturing the feeling of that and other kisses.

"I saw that," said the young, very tall associate standing in front of her desk.

Sue startled, coming out of her memory. "What?"

"He's taking advantage of you," said the tenor voice above her.

She looked up into the freckled face of Theodore Simpson, the first person that she had espied appreciating her daily arrival. She pulled off her glasses and widened her hazel eyes. "Do you think so, Mr. Simpson?"

"Teddy, I told you," he said, giving her a grin. "Yes, Susan, I think he plans to take all of the credit for your work and leave you behind."

She dipped her lashes. "Then I suppose it's a good thing that I have the list of everything that I've done for him, like we talked about before," she said, pulling from her desk a log of the assignments on which she had done most of the work for Collins. She added the current project as _Brief on Property Owner's Rights When Tax Delinquent_ and, smiling up at the Columbia alumnus before her, continued, "And you were so right when you suggested that you should sign the log each time as a witness. Right here, please," she said, pointing to the proper place on the list. "There's no way he can deny the help I've given him as long as I have this." She folded the document with a smile and secreted it in a file in her desk drawer. Taking a deep breath she looked up into young Simpson's face again.

She brushed the side of her face and left her chin cupped in her hand, as she adopted the soft, sweet voice that she'd heard Johnsy use when she wanted to charm someone. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate all of your help...Teddy. How can I ever thank you?"

His grin stretched across his freckles as he put his hands on her desk and leaned toward her. "You could have dinner with me."

Sue dropped her head with a titter and looked back into his face. "Why would you want to have dinner with me? I'm much too plain for a gentlemen like you, Teddy. You deserve a lovely young woman that you would be proud to show off. In fact, that's how I'll show my gratitude. I'll find you such a woman. Oh, but now don't you think you should go back to your desk before people will wonder why you're talking to me? We wouldn't want them to think I'm doing work for you, would we?" she said, loading another sheet into her typewriter and setting to work on her next task.

"Oh...of course," said Simpson, returning to his desk, shaking his head in confusion and looking back once at the enigmatic typist.

Sue grinned for him one last time. Men! she said to herself. Why on Earth would Johnsy want one of them?

She glanced to her left to the second level of the open office, where Collins sat at one of the research tables. She arched an eyebrow and he dropped his head to the brief in front of him. Her body shook slightly with her suppressed laugh. She sidled her sight to the row of desks where Simpson sat, not surprised that she caught his stare as well.

Sue sighed as she began pounding the keys on her Royal again. The morning light was now strong and so was her determination. If it was time for her to lose Johnsy, she would handle it as well as she did the politics in the office. She wouldn't fight it. She'd always sworn she would let her go with dignity.

Her fingers beat the lettered buttons on the machine in a rhythm to match her resigned heartbeat._ I just hoped to have her longer._


	5. Chapter 5

Johnsy turned in the bed, unsure when her dream had become a memory. One moment she was standing on an embankment in front of her easel, capturing an overcast morning sky over waters so clear that she could count the fish that swam past her.

In the next moment she was in a formal dining room, seated at a small square table with her parents and a dark-haired young man, sipping sherry with the soup course, chardonnay with the fish, red for the entree and champagne with dessert.  
>'<p>

Conversation was more lively than usual with her mother and father, thanks to Georgie, and they all laughed a great deal. 'This latest lark of Johnsy's will soon be over, I suspect," Sinclair said, using his napkin to brush crumbs from his whiskers, and our girl will be ready to return home and enthrall all of California again."

She took an anxious sip while George, seated to her right, grinned. "I don't know, Sir, this city has a way of enthralling." She felt his gaze on her and lifted her blue eyes to his dark brown ones. "We can be claimed and not even realize it until we're past the point of no return," he concluded, smiling again for the entire table.

Johnsy turned in her bed again, trying to conjure images of snowy sails gliding over the bay but remembered instead the white walls and monogrammed towels in the restaurant's powder room, where she and her mother retreated while the men smoked. She ran her fingertips over the teak wood of the long counter and glanced at her reflection in one of the oval mirrors above it.

"Such a delightful young man," said her mother next to her, smoothing the sides of her hair. "I had feared he might be different after his escapade in Europe, but he seems no less the worse for wear, don't you think?"

Johnsy turned her head to her. "Escapade?"

"Yes," Mrs. Sinclair said, smoothing her matronly plum silk skirt. "A Continental tour with his friends was, of course, expected, but their all joining the French Foreign Legion took everyone aback."

Johnsy halted her own primping for a moment. "The Legion? Why would he do that?" she asked, leaning closer to the mirror to powder her nose.

Her mother shrugged. "Why do any American men do that? Adventure, grand stories to share with their cronies, a broken heart..but he seems to be recovered from whatever led to such a silly decision. Just as charming as ever. Well, are you ready to rejoin them?"

She shifted on her pillows again, as the scene shifted to the interior of the carriage parked back at her apartment house in Greenwich Village. She might as well have been in a crate for all that she could notice of anything but his presence next to her, a friendly arm over her shoulders, regaling her with less guarded stories of mutual friends.

"Charles asked me to give you something."

She smiled at him, still a little tipsy from dinner. "Your brother? What would he have to give me?"

"This," George answered, taking her hand and kissing the inside of her wrist. Even through the long satin glove, she felt his lips, firm yet gentle, nicer than Charles's had ever been. His eyes held her as his hand did. He moistened his lips and she unconsciously did the same. Firm yet gentle, his mouth on hers. Firm yet gentle, his arms around her, the hand that caressed her cheek, and lips that pressed to her forehead.

Firm yet gentle, her response. "I have to go," she said, stepping out of the carriage. "Good night, George." She fumbled in her bag for her key. It fell to the ground with what seemed to her a deafening, echoing ping.

George picked it up and handed it to her. He gave her the stole that she had left in the carriage, wrapping it around her. "Goodnight, Johnsy."

She awoke with the same palpitations that she'd felt leaning on the door inside the house. She tried one more time to roll over and return to her dream but the Bay of Naples was gone for good.

She lit a candle resting on a table by the old iron bed, glad that Sue wasn't there to see her in her present state. It was just the wine, she told herself, rising from the bed and washing her face while boiling water for tea. She dressed and did a quick cleanup of the room, paying special attention to Sue's desk so that it would be neat for her that evening. She got her sketch paper and pens and began her stroll in the neighborhood.

Just the wine, she said to herself, nearly colliding with two women carrying large bundles of fabric piecework to the shirt factory a few blocks distant. With their bulging arms and grim, tired faces, Johnsy knew that they would make excellent subjects for a drawing and almost asked them to pose for her. No, it would be important to capture them in the middle of their task, not interrupted and arranged.

She smiled and hurried past them, next seeing some barefooted children on their way to the park, tossing a grimy ball back and forth to each other.

They waved at the beautiful lady and she returned the greeting, before entering one of the little twisted side streets for which the Village was famous. It was as though only a single ray of the sun's light could squeeze between the brownstone buildings on either side of the cobblestone walkways. The light served as a beacon to guide her back to the open street.

Just the wine. She ambled past the old houses converted to apartments and storefronts, absorbing the smells of food from the public houses and street vendors, and idly waving and speaking to the people she met along the way.

Just the wine, and it was nice seeing Georgie again. The kiss was nice.

Johnsy had always been an enthusiastic kisser with all of her beaux at home in California, including Georgie's older brother Charles. She had segmented physical contact into her own ideas of what was acceptable and unacceptable—a self-serving notion, that had allowed for flexibility in all of her relationships, not that she'd tested it with her current one before last night. It was self-serving but not selfish. After all, she wouldn't have begrudged Sue a kiss from another woman.

She'd never thought of Georgie, who was her age, as someone to kiss, but he was handsome and entertaining. Her mother obviously adored him. He was strong and confident…and, she realized, he was standing before her at her favorite outdoor produce market.

George Prescott Martin's mischievous smile belied his somber business suit appearance, as Johnsy, the object of his affection, and venture into the Village, finally arrived.

Just the wine, she reminded herself as she went to talk to him. "What are you doing here, Georgie?"

He handed her a bag of apples. "Having a pleasant conversation with Mrs. Garrity," he answered. "She thinks you're a lovely young woman, by the way."

"Good morning, Mrs. Garrity," Johnsy called to the grocer, who was waiting on a customer.

The hubbub of the street vendors and foot traffic made it necessary for the two Californians, accustomed to a more sedate atmosphere, to raise their voices. George showed Johnsy a couple more small bags. "She's a shrewd businesswoman," he said, as Mrs. Garrity weaved her way through the tables and carts, laden with Indian summer's fruits and vegetables, to where they stood. "She agreed that for every hour I waited here for you, I had to buy another bag of food. So you also have potatoes and onions."

"You've been waiting that long?" asked a flattered Johnsy.

He grinned, tilting his thin black mustache. "Well, I didn't realize you were such a lady of leisure, though

I think Mrs. Garrity might have, when we made our bargain."

The handsome, middle-aged grocer smiled at the couple, then turned her attention to a squat, kerchiefed woman eyeing the tomatoes.

A little girl with black ringlets and warm brown eyes dominating her pale face shyly came to stand next to Johnsy.

"Hello, Benita," Johnsy greeted her. "How is your mother today?"

Benita looked up at Johnsy, clearly adoring. "She's still sick and the baby's coughing now too," Benita reported. "Mama wanted to have the doctor come but we don't have money to pay him."

Johnsy tsked and said, "Here, take these for your family."

George eyed her, perplexed. "Johnsy, you're the most considerate person I know. Don't you think Miss Benita's family might need more than a few potatoes?"

Johnsy looked down at the bag with a slight frown."Papa says that people shouldn't be given too much. It builds character to have to struggle," she explained.

George smiled tolerantly on the naïve, privileged girl he was sure he loved. He requested Mrs. Garrity bag more staples and, with a wink at Benita, more apples and some lollipops. "I remember not having enough food, Johnsy. It doesn't build character, just hunger."

She looked at him, her blue eyes shuttering in surprise. "When were you ever hungry, Georgie?" she asked, as they took the groceries and began strolling with Benita to see her family.

With the advent of public transportation, there were fewer carriages on the street. The city's denizens had taken to walking down the middle of the road, avoiding the piles of smelly garbage and manure often found along the sidewalk and curb.

George offered his arm and explained, "When I was little we were fruit pickers, working and living in the groves."

"I had no idea," Johnsy said. "Your mother is such a gracious lady."

George nodded in agreement. "Yes, and she was when all she had to serve was weak chicory coffee. My father would do anything for her. He began his shipping business by running crates of oranges and strawberries to the market. When he opened his first company, his partner suggested changing his name from Martino to Martin."

"I can't believe I've never heard this," said Johnsy, a little breathlessly, as they moved to avoid a young newsboy, hurrying past them and dropping his papers. "Charles never mentioned that."

George stooped to help the flustered, apologetic boy pick up his merchandise and gave him a penny for a folded edition. "Well, Charles doesn't have the same pride in our origins that I do. In his mind the 'Martins' were on the next ship after the Mayflower."

Johnsy giggled. "You were always more charming, Georgie, though Charles was more handsome."

George leaned over and whispered in her ear, "He's gotten fat." She shivered at the tickle of his breath.

The sights and sounds of the neighborhood changed, as they moved into the immigrant enclave, with its flat-front buildings, more horse-drawn wagons, and spicy aroma of food from the old country, to the tenement where Benita's family lived in two rooms on the fourth floor.

George helped Johnsy in her long skirt negotiate a puddle of questionable origin in front of the building. "I have to go to the office now. Can you and Benita manage alone?"

"Of course," Johnsy answered, clasping the shopping bags close to her chest and holding out her hand. "It was nice to see you again, Georgie."

He bent at the waist and lifted the slender hand to his lips. "Always a pleasure."

Benita clutched the bags of apples and lollipops and watched the exchange with interest. George grinned as he bent down further to kiss her hand, as well. "And it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Benita."

He raised back up and leaned toward Johnsy. "I'll stop at the doctor's office and arrange for the visit." He left with a final grin and tip of his homburg hat.

She smiled after him, not thinking about its effect, but just because she couldn't help it. Her cheeks warmed in a blush when he turned to wave. Had he known that she would still be looking? How could she be having this reaction to someone she'd always considered her beau's funny little brother?

"Oh, Miss Johnsy," Benita gushed. "He's so…" She looked up at Johnsy, her eyes bright and face as red as the apples she carried. "I want to see him again."

Johnsy smiled down on her. So she wasn't the only one who had felt it- not just the wine. She gave the little girl a wise nod. "Yes, Benita, he's a gentleman. That's how he's supposed to make us feel."


	6. Chapter 6

The young woman and little girl sang bits of Tin Pan Alley songs as they stomped up the stairs to the third floor. Benita's mother usually cleaned the steps and landings in exchange for the apartment. Since she'd been unable to do so the last few days, the space was dirtier and the air more stagnant than usual. Johnsy choked on the dust and contented herself with humming, rather than singing the rest of the distance, to the door that Benita ran to open for her.

Johnsy looked around the cramped, dark apartment. It had the look and smell of recent, rather than habitual inattention, because of the mother's illness—enough children's clutter to indicate a couple of days of not being made to clean up after themselves—but no more than that.

She heard the baby crying and went to see if she could help. Benita's mother was sleeping fitfully, kicking her legs and rolling from side to side. Johnsy took the crying, sweating baby from the open drawer in which he was lying and carried him to the front room. She pulled back the curtain to let in the sunshine.

Johnsy shook her head at the clutter and gave Benita a look that had the little girl quickly scurrying around the room, collecting the clothes and bits of food that she and her brother Nicholas had strewn. Who would have ever thought that the pretty lady who had asked if she could draw her and Nicholas a couple of months ago would be here?

"You're such beautiful children!" Johnsy had squealed to Benita and her twin, together on their daily foray for sympathy and change, to buy food for their family.

Johnsy settled with the baby in the rickety rocking chair by the window. Benita sat next to her and continued their sing-a-long. "How is it that you know so much Ragtime?" Johnsy asked with a little smile and headshake as she put the baby to sleep. Marco gripped her finger in a strong, tiny first, as if he too was as smitten with her as his brother and sister.

"Just on the streets," Benita explained with a shrug. "Sometimes people pay Nicholas and me to sing for them."

Johnsy frowned. While she could be accused of being a bit naïve, her suspicious instincts were heightened when it came to the welfare of Benita and her brother. "Benita, you must be careful. Not everyone that you meet out there is trustworthy."

"Look!" Nicholas shouted, bursting into the apartment and slamming the door.

"Shhh," admonished both Johnsy and Benita, the woman placing a finger to her lips, while the young girl whipped her head in his direction, slapping her face with her long, black corkscrew curls.

"Sorry," the boy whispered. Caramel colored eyes still gleamed with excitement as he walked closer to his sister and Miss Johnsy, holding up a silver coin. "A lady gave me a dollar, just for walking her home."

"A whole dollar!" Benita exclaimed, jumping up and taking the coin from her brother while Johnsy frowned again, her maternal intuition near its peak.

"Yeah," he grinned. "All I had to do was call her Mother and let her kiss me."

At that Johnsy's instincts nearly boiled over. "Nicholas, that was dangerous. She might have wanted more from you or there could have been someone waiting at her house to hurt you."

The boy lifted his slight shoulders. "Nothing happened."

"But it might have," Johnsy insisted. "You only have a few more weeks of summer vacation and then the two of you must return to school. You can't be out on the street every day. "

"But we have to, Miss Johnsy," Benita said. "Our mother needs for us to help her."

Johnsy sighed, thinking of George's words that not having enough food didn't build character, only hunger. Not to mention desperation and recklessness, she added to herself. "Children,・she said, holding the baby closer to her breast, "If I give your mother enough money, will you promise to stop trying to get it from people?・

Benita's mouth opened in surprise. "You would do that for us, Miss Johnsy?"

Johnsy looked at the twins, so vulnerable out there. She kissed the baby's hand. She looked around the apartment. The curtains were ruffled and there were old photographs in frames on the walls. She was drawn to one of a little boy and girl with almost identical features, holding hands. A young man and woman stood behind them, loving expressions coming through the stoicism favored by photographers. Her gaze returned to Nicholas and Benita. "Of course."

After tidying the apartment and making soup with Georgie's groceries, Johnsy left some money in the room where the mother slept. She smiled when she put the bills in a shoe, remembering how she and Georgie used to move her parents' belongings so that they would find them somewhere other than where they'd left them. "Everyone likes a little surprise," George used to say.

She spent another hour with Benita and Nicholas, sketching them and learning more new songs from them. She gave them hugs and promised to return the next day so that they could introduce her to their mother.

Soon after her departure, the doctor came. He took one look at the red-lipped baby and lifted him from the drawer to try to cool his raging fever. He opened a window to ventilate the stuffy rooms. The fresh breeze that entered billowed the curtains and ruffled the papers that had been neatly stacked on the table. The miniature dust storm he'd feared didn't occur and he realized that the apartment was clean, despite the mother's illness, as was the baby's crisp bedding.

"Ma'am," he explained to Benita's mother, "you and the baby need fresh, cool air. It's very important to keep the window open and the baby just loosely covered."

She nodded, and pushed her damp tendrils of dark hair from her face. "Thank you for coming," she said in a weak voice. "I'm afraid I don't have money for you."

"That's alright," he assured her, patting her hand, "it's been taken care of." Having done all he could for the patients, Doc went back to the front room to speak to Benita and Nicholas. He stood over them as they sat on the lumpy, tattered sofa and explained that their mother and baby brother were contagious and asked if they'd been taking care of the baby.

Benita shook her head in answer. "No, Mama was afraid we'd make him worse."

Doc crouched so he was at the level of the pretty little girl and spoke in a low, careful voice. "Honey, whoever has touched the baby has been exposed and could be sick. I need to know who it is, so I can make sure he or she isn't going to be ill, like your mother and brother. Who has been taking care of the baby?"

Benita's brown eyes pooled so deeply with tears that they looked liquid, as if the color was going to run down her cheeks. She said brokenly, "Miss Johnsy."


	7. Chapter 7

Sue raised her head from her work, her lips curling in disgust at the spectacle of five or six young men at the window at the front of the building. Probably ogling some poor young thing who had the misfortune to pass by just before the end of the workday. She chuckled inwardly, wondering what they would do if she joined them and gave a more accurate appraisal of the woman than they ever could. Johnsy hadn't been her first, after all, but she was the only one that Sue had ever loved.

She rose from her desk, gathered her things and strolled out into the sunshine. She turned to the right and caught a glimpse of a young blonde woman hurrying along the sidewalk. Charming, was her evaluation, but no Johnsy.

Sue crossed the boulevard, thinking again about the women she'd seen there earlier. She'd been able to hear the drum and speeches for some time, wondering which of the voices was the imposing woman who had tempted her to join them. She knew from the clients who came in during the day that the group had stayed out until around noon when the police wagon came for them. Ah, to have that kind of commitment to anything, that is, anything besides a beloved, too-pretty-for-her-own-good, artistic naif.

She removed her short jacket and continued her stroll. The day was warm but not stifling and sunlight reflected everywhere, windows, the sides of concrete buildings in the distance, even the tops of trees and dark green shrubbery in the park. She heard the smack of a bat and cheering and headed in that direction, as she always enjoyed watching a game. She needed something to improve her mood before walking home. The young blonde that she'd seen had reminded her. There was no one quite like Johnsy. If she had to let her go, how could she ever find anyone else whom she could love as much?

Johnsy had her easel placed in front of the window, taking advantage of the late afternoon sun that shone through it. She was transferring one of her drawings of Benita and Nicholas to a painting. She shivered and got a shawl against the chill and glanced periodically at the clock, eager for Sue's arrival.

I love Sue; I've always loved Sue, she reminded herself. "I've never realized before how attractive Georgie is but that's too bad for me now."

Having convinced herself, she nodded and returned to the painting, concentrating on the similarity in the high cheekbones of her young subjects, just like in that photograph in their apartment.

Maybe I don't like…that…as much as Sue does, but it makes her so happy. All I want is for Sue to be happy.

Johnsy studied the painting. Something about it seemed familiar. She pulled out her drawing books and found it, a picture of two native children she'd drawn when she was making her cross-country trip to attend college in New York. She had seen them when her train had stopped in Nebraska. "Such beautiful children," she had squealed. She'd used her pleading smile to persuade their mother to allow her to draw them. Five years ago, she realized. She studied her amateurish technique. It had changed so much over the years and so had she. Why, she hadn't even known Sue then, darling Sue. I know I can be a trial to live with. I must make it up to her.

She looked again at the clock and then out the window, waving to Old Behrman, weeding in the side yard. She saw him rise slowly and head toward the rear of the house and probably the back door, then she saw Sue walking toward the house.

Sue had continued her own monologue on her way home and was resolved that regardless of what the future might hold, she loved her roommate and that she would enjoy the time she had with her until Johnsy was ready to move on to marriage and family and a man, be that tomorrow, a year from now, or never, hopefully never.

Her heart fluttered at her first sight of Johnsy, blonde hair sparkling in the light from the window, blue eyes welcoming, arms held out for her. They expertly removed each others' layers of tiny-buttoned blouses, skirts, corsets, camisoles and bloomers and fell onto the bed together.

Behrman,who had been keeping his vigil for Sue's homecoming, hurried up to his room and inched back the rug to uncover the holes in the floor. He could hear kissing sounds and mounting desire with the sighs and moans between the two women. He dropped to his knees and crawled from one peephole to the next, trying to see them.

Behrman actually had very poor view, no matter which hole he used. When he heard the couple, it was his imagination that dictated what he "saw" the girls doing and what he drew as a result.

He heard the bed creaking and crawled faster from one hole to another. He saw a patch of skin, a sweep of hair. His breathing increased with theirs. He followed the rhythm he heard below him. His trousers generated friction with his rapid movements, adding to his fervor.

Johnsy, for a change, took on the more aggressive role. As a true artist, she saw Sue as an easel and canvas and used her lips, tongue and hands to paint a picture across her body. Sue moaned in pleasure, as Johnsy focused her efforts below the waist. She rubbed herself on Sue's slender leg, bone on sensitive button, but still felt she was missing...something. Johnsy had never had a man inside her, but she'd had a few erections bump against her in her day, when she'd allowed kissing to continue too long. With Charles, George's brother, it was almost instantaneous.

...and George was back in her thoughts. She tried to push him away; Sue deserved her loyalty, her undivided attention. But that only increased the man's presence in her mind, then she imagined feeling him. She probed deeper, kissed the inside of Sue's thighs, tried to concentrate on the smoothness and sweet smell of her skin, but George wouldn't go away.

Sue's excitement peaked and she rocked her lower body on the bed, whispering Johnsy's name. In spite of her distraction, Johnsy was able to follow, achieving her own satiety, though its impetus was questionable. She crawled back up for a kiss. "I love you, Sudie," she said softly, laying her head on Sue's breast.

Sue stroked her hair. "White mouse, scurrying all over me," she tittered. "I could live with you forever."

Johnsy felt a chill over her bare skin and shivered. Sue threw her patchwork quilt over them, reminding Johnsy of their history of sharing body heat. Holding her close, Sue drifted off into a contented sleep. Johnsy lay awake much longer, unable to stop the chills or her thoughts of bigger, warmer arms to envelop her.

Above them Behrman, a soppy, spent mess, sat on the floor of his unlit room, hanging his head in shame. He hadn't even tried to draw. He had only tried to watch and be a part of it. "What have I sunk to?" he asked himself, crawling like a penitent across the floor to his wash basin, unable to glance at the picture of his wife.

He cleaned himself but knew to clean his conscience that he would have to close the holes to remove any temptation. With that decision, he could now look Christina in the eye. She seemed to nod as he promised her that he would do just that, and wouldn't charge the women the extra ten percent.


	8. Chapter 8

The activity on the fourth floor of the tenement was frenetic. The next door neighbor said she could keep one of the children so Nicholas stayed with her and her family. That woman sent her eldest son to run and tell Benita's aunt to be expecting her in the next hour. Doc placed a quarantine sign on the door of the apartment.

_But who is going to tell Georgie about Miss Johnsy_? Benita worried to herself. She and Nicholas hadn't been able to tell the doctor any more about the young woman who had been in the apartment and he hadn't spoken to George himself, so he'd had no information, other than Benita's address, with payment for the visit. He planned to look for the woman later, but first had to isolate the sickness as much as he could. Benita alone was concerned about the her and her suitor who had so enchanted her.

_Miss Johnsy needs him; he's a gentleman._

A purr rolled out of Sue's mouth as she stretched and rolled out of bed the next morning, then she looked quickly at Johnsy, lying next to her. She didn't want to disturb her.

"It's all right, Sue," Johnsy murmured as she lifted herself in a languid motion from the pillows. "I wanted you to wake me so that I could have breakfast with you."

Sue watched from the water pump as Johnsy slipped into the light blue kimono that matched her eyes. "Really? You usually only have breakfast with me on the weekend when we sleep later."

Johnsy giggled, gliding to the kitchen area to ignite the wood stove for coffee. "Well, I need to change that. I want to spend more time with you," she said. She collapsed to one of the chairs at the table as her head started spinning.

A delighted Sue gave her a kiss on the cheek, saying, "What a lovely idea," then she hurried to dress, fix her hair and warm some bread, as Johnsy sat at the table, massaging her throbbing head.

"I don't think I can eat, Sue, maybe just a cup of coffee," Johnsy said, covering her face with her hands to block the scant morning light.

Sue stepped behind her and placed the cup on the table. "You should really have more if you're going to exert yourself so much at night," she whispered, nuzzling her roommate's neck and wrapping an arm around her.

Johnsy tilted her head to give Sue easier access to that side of her neck and face, resulting in an intensified dizziness. The small painting on the wall over the water pump—her depiction of the grounds at Vassar—dissolved into a formless, green mass. "I don't feel well right now," she sighed.

Sue stood in front of her and looked down, her hazel eyes scanning the beloved face with concern.

"Hopefully I'll be better tonight," Johnsy added, rising and touching Sue's cheek. She swallowed a lump in her scratchy throat and smiled as she went to dress for the day. "I guess we should be…leaving now."

They shared a last embrace through their whalebone and laces at the door. "Have a wonderful day," Johnsy said.

"That's assured if I'm coming home to you," Sue responded.

They left the building and turned in opposite directions. Sue headed for her office, where she was secretly helping Collins prepare a new brief and receiving help, herself, from Teddy. She whistled as she strolled into the commercial district, and observed the more dignified morning bustle—mostly just men in expensive business suits, hurrying into the buildings where they earned the money to pay for their attire. She looked for the Votes for Women group but they weren't anywhere along her route. Oh well.

After last night, Sue had renewed optimism for her and Johnsy. While she was still determined that she wouldn't stand in Johnsy's way when she was ready for a different life, maybe it would be a little longer before she had to face that.

On her way to Mrs. Garrity's market and, ultimately, to Benita's apartment, Johnsy tried to ignore the neighborhood smells and noises and keep down the waves of nausea moving inside her. She felt her heart lift, as if it was racing ahead of her to greet him, when she saw George talking to the grocer.

"Good morning," he said in his cheerful baritone voice, flashing his white teeth, "I'm taking the day off from work so I can help you at Benita's."

Johnsy thought she'd prepared herself for seeing and rejecting him but in his presence, the feelings from yesterday returned and she could sense her resolve crumbling. Sue deserved her loyalty though, so she'd have to bluff her way through her rebuff. "I can manage, George, thank you," she said in a business-like tone.

George frowned. In all of the years he'd known her, he had never heard Johnsy sound so impersonal, nearly cold. "But I'd love to see that little girl again. Her curiosity and delight in people remind me of another little girl, who grew into a wonderful lady," he said, looking at Johnsy meaningfully.

She shook her head. "It's best if Benita doesn't see us together again. It's best if we don't see each other again. There's someone else in my life." She finished that statement with difficulty, looking down and playing with the strings of her pouch handbag.

George and Johnsy were almost the same height. Unconvinced in her statement, he only looked down slightly at her. "Your mother said there wasn't."

She managed a quick glance at his face. "My mother doesn't know everything."

George smiled. "Are you saying that your mother and father wouldn't approve of this person, if they knew about him, that is."

Johnsy looked down again, not sure what to say.

Mrs. Garrity's customers moved impatiently around the couple, standing directly in front of her prize squashes. She frowned at both of them then made a shooing motion.

George tipped his hat to the woman, then took Johnsy's arm, leading her away from the produce stand and the jostling shoppers, to the steps of an adjoining boarding house. The sun was less warm in the shadow of the awning over the building front, and Johnsy shivered again.

"Are you trying to scandalize me, Johnsy?" he asked in a quiet voice, leaning over her. "It won't work. You already kissed me in spite of there being 'someone else,' remember?" He shifted the groceries and drew her closer. "You always had a bit of a reputation—pretty Johnsy, who kissed too soon and too well. I've always wanted to know that first-hand."

Johnsy couldn't keep herself from looking into his dark brown eyes. Her heart beat faster and she swallowed a lump down her raspy throat. Was he going to kiss her again? She couldn't help feeling that it might somehow make her feel better if he did.

He didn't. His smile widened. "But if you want to tell yourself that you feel nothing for me, I'll enjoy proving you wrong. You're not just a lovely young woman, you're exciting. That's worth a little rejection. So I'll be back tomorrow and the next day, and the next, until you stop rejecting me. In the meantime, while you have 'someone else' in your life, I don't. So I'm free to see as many young ladies as I like."

She pulled away from him and the back of her foot bumped the bottom step, throwing her off balance. She felt the heat rush to her face.

George grinned again. "No, I didn't think you'd like that. I had planned to invite you to the theater tonight but since there's 'someone else,' I'll take someone else with me, perhaps spend time with her in the carriage, like we did."

Another nauseous current pulsed through Johnsy's body. Whether because of George's teasing, the overpowering aroma of the produce warming in the sun, or another reason, Johnsy wasn't sure. She unthinkingly plopped down on the dirty stairs.

George leaned over and took her hand. "Just keep in mind, Johnsy, that I'll wish I was with you." He kissed her hand and strolled away, whistling, leaving the bags of food for Benita's family.

Johnsy felt her cheeks burning. She watched George walking away from her, jerking her head down when he spun around to wave to her.

She stood and gathered the bags then sat down again, feeling dizzy. Commanding herself to stop being silly, she rose slowly and carefully. She took the groceries and headed toward Benita's, pausing to catch her breath before climbing the four flights of stairs. Infuriating man.

Johnsy choked again on the dust and negotiated the steps in the dark stairwell with care. Her heart was pounding and her panting was inexplicably heavy by the time she arrived at the apartment and saw the quarantine sign. She knocked on a neighbor's door and asked for an explanation. The neighbor, holding a smudge-faced toddler in her arms, told her about the doctor's visit and the little girl being sent away. The mother and baby were still in there but not to be disturbed. She'd see to it that they got the food, she said, grabbing the bags eagerly.

Johnsy was too weak to argue or ask more questions. The mother and baby were contagious when she was there the previous day. Could that be why she felt this way, not because she was sickened at the idea of George with another woman or not seeing him? The knowledge that she had an illness and not a broken heart was almost a relief.

She realized she needed to get home as soon as she could, so she hailed a hansom cab. She longed for a hot bath but, with no tub in the apartment, like she had at home in California, she had to settle for a tepid sponge bath at the kitchen sink.

Johnsy then crawled into bed wearing her camisole and ruffly, knee-length pantaloons. Her head pounded and stomach ached and she tossed on the bed, unable to get comfortable. The return of the feeling of big, strong arms to comfort her made her feel warmer and allowed her to finally drift off into needed sleep. She was awakened a few hours later with a small kiss from Sue, attempting to slide into bed with her.

"No!" cried Johnsy, rolling away from her, "Don't touch me. I'm contagious." She told Sue about the quarantine at Benita's apartment and how sick she'd felt since that morning. Sue felt her forehead and fluffed the pillows but all Johnsy wanted was to go back to sleep.

"It's been a while since you've been to a salon or poetry reading," she said, "Why don't you go out tonight? I'll probably need you more in the next few days than I do tonight."

Sue opened her mouth to protest then saw the look on Johnsy's face, the eyes bleary with pinkish whites and the flushed cheeks drooping with a frown. She realized that her roommate needed some time alone. "Are you sure you won't need me?" she asked as she went to the sink to wash her face then leave.

Johnsy nodded. "Why don't you wear a dress, Darling?"

"You think I should?" Sue asked, grinning and enjoying Johnsy's fussing over her. She pulled a lilac silk dress from her trunk at the foot of the bed and quickly changed from her skirt and blouse.

Johnsy sat up to tie the bow on the wine-colored sash and fell back in a swoon on the pillows. "Wear my pearls," she requested in a weak voice.

Sue smiled again at the other girl's attempts to glamorize her. She screwed the teardrop earrings onto her lobes.

"Now take your hair down."

The brunette woman removed the pins from her hair, added a little pomade to it and brushed it until it gleamed in waves. She dabbed on some cologne and completed her look with a lace shawl.

"Beautiful," Johnsy said breathlessly, gazing up at the vision in purple pink ruffles and lace. "Oh, Sudie, you'll get so much attention tonight."

Sue's smile dropped and she froze. "Why would you want me to have attention from others, especially when you're not there?"

Johnsy's head was demanding a return to dreams. She placed the back of her hand on her brow, trying to understand why Sue seemed upset. "Sue, I always want everyone to see how lovely you are. And rich and powerful people attend those salons. It can be good for you to impress them."

Sue looked at that face, incapable of guile, and felt her heartbeat quicken. The Johnsy Rhythm, she called it. "Well I certainly stand a better chance of impressing people after your help than I did before, when all I might have offered were my opinions." She smiled warmly as she bent down for a kiss. "Thank you, dear. I'll be home early."

Johnsy shook her head. "Don't. I want you to have a really good time tonight," she said pulling the covers close to prevent further exposure for Sue.

The tiny doubt returned to Sue's mind as she rose back to her full height. She certainly didn't suspect Johnsy of having a visitor while she was gone. She was obviously ill. But Sue could tell that, aside from the illness, things had changed for them. It was as if the passion in the room had been swept away and replaced by sisterly affection. Like a good sister, Johnsy seemed to want her to find happiness apart from her. Was last night her way of saying goodbye?


	9. Chapter 9

Johnsy had said she wanted her to have a really good time, so Sue did her best. The evening was a swirl of music, laughter, wine punch and clever repartee. The old-fashioned candlelight, used for atmosphere, seemed particularly kind to Sue, infusing her natural beauty with an extra glow that drew everyone to her, like bees to honey. She basked in being Johnsy's surrogate as the prettiest woman in the room, not to mention one of the most interesting.

She couldn't recall many details from the soiree, but knew she'd been kissed at least once and danced with several women, then someone called from the back of the room, rushing forward in a rustle of emerald taffeta.."Tilda, Darling! We've been so worried! Are you all right? What are we going to do with you?"

Sue looked toward the door as a tall woman with an exquisite plumed headdress emerged from a sea of hugs and well wishes. She took in a breath of surprise as she recognized the very handsome woman as the leader of the protest group from yesterday.

Sue's eyes followed her as she made the rounds of the room, all of the light seemingly absorbed in her incandescent silver gown. As she approached with a small, polite smile, Sue realized that the woman's eyes matched the gown in color and effect, sparkling with an internal light.

"Matilda James," said the hostess, "may I present young Susan Clark, a recent Vassar graduate—"

"—and current indispensable employee of Callahan &Graves, Esq." Matilda interjected with a smirk. It's nice to put a name to such a…memorable face."

Sue controlled her tendency to drop her head to hide a bright blush and instead, met the woman's steady gaze and held out her hand. "It's a pleasure, to meet you Miss…"

"Mrs.," Matilda said. "Why don't you just call me Tilda. Formality isn't really appropriate when a woman knows that another has been arrested, and tried to lure her into the same predicament."

Sue gave a small laugh then put her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry. That was wrong of me. I hope your experience wasn't terrible."

Tilda shrugged. "It wasn't my first time behind bars; I doubt that it will be my last, at least until the Suffragettes are treated with respect, rather than as criminals. Perhaps then we can entice women such as you to join us."

"Oh, I…" Sue stammered, hating herself for being flustered.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," announced the hostess, "If you will all move into the dining room, we have a little late supper to enjoy while some local lyricists entertain us."

"Will you join me…what shall I call you?" asked Tilda, twisting to stand by Sue then lead her into the dining room where an array of cold meat, cheeses and more wine was spread out on a long table covered with a light green cloth.

"Sue," she blurted, regaining some of her composure. "How long have you been involved with the Suffragettes, Tilda?"

Thus began a long conversation, continued in whispers during recitation of a long Sapphic sonnet and assorted odes to love and nature.

Now riding home, gazing at the sacheted calling card Tilda had given her, Sue considered the suggestion the older woman had made, first in jest, then more seriously, "Why aren't you a member of the Suffragettes? We need smart, educated young women like you. We can help you become a lawyer."

At the time Sue had just mentally filed that remark with all of the other compliments from the evening. But now, listening to the clop, clop of the horses' hooves as she rode home in the hansom cab for which Johnsy had given her money, Sue considered the question.

Why, indeed, was she not part of the movement? Probably only because she'd been so pre-occupied with Johnsy in school and since graduation, and Johnsy didn't think politically. The blackness of the night and slight breeze generated by the vehicle's movement helped clear her mind of other thoughts so that she was able, for once, to concentrate on herself.

She'd planned to at least ask Johnsy about the man in the carriage when she'd arrived home from work the previous evening, but had been pleasantly surprised by the amorous greeting Johnsy had given her. All thoughts of uncomfortable questions had left her mind. Johnsy had been so different. Usually Sue had to do most of the work but it was like Johnsy had wanted to make up for what had happened, without admitting it.

_I suppose that's why she was a little distracted, _Sue told herself. Grinning, she added, _but if that's what she does when she's thinking about something else, I wonder what she'd be like when I have her full attention. Of course, the only time I've had her full attention lately was this_ _evening, when she tried to make me as appealing as possible_. _Hmph, seemed to have worked._

She turned over the card Tilda had given her with the address for a noon Suffragette meeting that Sue could attend on her lunch hour. _It wouldn't hurt to go to one meeting, just to see what it's like, _Sue reasoned. Things were changing for her and Johnsy. She could feel it. Maybe she should explore other interests.

A sly smile crept to Sue's face, as she remembered how Tilda had tucked the card into the scoop neckline of her dress, just below the shoulder. "Smart, educated young women," she'd said, "always have options."

Johnsy's breathing was a little heavier than usual, Sue noted, eschewing a candle, lest the light disturb the essential sleep. Maybe she wasn't going to be as sick as she'd thought she'd be. Sue smiled as she slipped out of her dress and lay down to snuggle her. Johnsy could be a little…dramatic, she knew.

"Georg…" whispered Johnsy in her sleep.

With a deep sigh, Sue rolled to lie flat on her back, not embracing her bedmate, nor turning away.

The forehead was cool the next morning when Sue awoke to check Johnsy, so she decided that she could go to work as usual and attend the Suffragist meeting. She dressed quickly, placed a glass of water on the little table on Johnsy's side of the bed, then left, blowing her a kiss.

She flew through her morning assignments and gave Collins the work she'd done for him, failing to note it on her log. Her exit for lunch was so rapid that the men who liked to watch her walk through the aisles only had a disappointing flash of movement.

The address was for a hatmaker a couple of blocks from her office. She knocked, despite the Out to Lunch sign on the door, as instructed by Tilda, and it was quickly opened just a crack by a young redhaired woman. "Sue Clark?" the woman—girl, actually, probably no more than sixteen, asked. "Mrs. James said we should expect you."

She opened the door wider and Sue entered, taking in the assortment of plumes, lace, ribbon and mannequin heads and busts, as the girl said, "This way, please," and led her to the back of the shop.

"Oh, Sue," Tilda greeted her, Her light brown hair hadn't yet begun graying and her blue-gray eyes still sparked with energy. The smoothness of her long neck was still visible despite the very high lace collar of her otherwise plain dress. "I am so glad you could make it. I trust your friend is feeling better?" She smiled in response to Sue's nod. "Good. I'll introduce you to everyone later. Let's sit over here," she said, taking Sue's hand and heading to two chairs front and center of the block of about twenty, set up in front of a small table.

Sue noticed that Tilda's dress was black with a thin layer of lace on the the high collar, like the matronly-looking women seated at the table, and her hat was serviceable, with little decoration. She marveled again at the woman's ability to stand out while blending in.

"I call this meeting to order," said the plump chairwoman seated in the center of the table. Sue noticed that the black bow of the woman's bonnet, tied under the tiers of flesh that was her chin, bounced when she spoke, like a marionette. She followed the movement of the bow, which seemed to strain when the speaker became more impassioned, nearly missing the statement about "support from temperance groups".

"I don't think that's a good idea," she whispered to Tilda, who responded by leaning closer to Sue and breathing a challenge in her ear, "Don't be shy; tell everyone what you have to say."

"Are there any comments?" the speaker and her bow asked.

Tilda gave Sue's hand a squeeze of encouragement and the younger woman rose, conscious of the eyes of everyone upon her. "I'm not sure it's right to align so closely with those whose primary goal is to stop the sale of alcohol," Sue said with a tremor in her voice.

The chairwoman tilted her head. "And you are…"

"This is my friend, Miss Susan Clark," Tilda said, rising to stand also. "We need bright young women like her if we are to succeed. I want to hear what she has to say." She patted Sue's shoulder and took her seat.

Sue cleared her throat and continued in a stronger voice, "It's just that some of the temperance league is so radical, forcing their way into bars and smashing them up. Taxes on alcohol sales are a large portion of our nation's economy and the group doesn't really offer any ideas on how that should be compensated for…" she trailed off.

"And what do you propose we should do instead?" the heavy woman asked.

Sue dropped her head, unsure of what to say next, and felt Tilda standing next to her again. "Really, Isabella Hooker, are you trying to scare away new recruits? It's not important yet what solutions a desirable member like Sue might offer, just that she give us something to think about, which I'm sure we'll all agree, she has."

It stayed with Sue all afternoon. She had spoken in front of Isabella Beecher Hooker, grande dam of the abolitionist and police reform movements. She could move in circles with women like that…and Tilda? _Oh, my_, _I could make a real contribution, establish a reputation for myself, become a leader._

That plan lasted until Sue opened the door of the apartment that evening and heard the agonizing coughs and wheezes from Johnsy. She ran to her and wrapped her arms around her.

"No, Sue," Johnsy protested, weakly trying to disengage herself, "I don't want you to get sick too."

"I never get sick," Sue assured her. She lay next to Johnsy and rubbed her back, hummed old and new songs and tried to lull her into a semblance of restorative sleep. Nothing seemed to help.


	10. Chapter 10

Behrman heard the coughs and physical misery from the apartment below him, even with the ceiling patched. He recognized them. They were the sounds of the sickness that had taken Christina from him. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he looked at the rug in the middle of his floor and sighed heavily. In the following days, the apartment house took on a pall, as Johnsy's condition worsened.

"Here, Darling, drink your tea," Sue cajoled, bringing a cup to the shared bed. Johnsy sighed, unable to lift her head from her sweat-soaked pillow. She closed her eyes to the grey haze that seemed to hang around the bed like a smoky canopy.

"I'm sorry, Sue," whimpered Johnsy. "I'm trying, really I am. My head just hurts so much and..." she gasped, preserving her oxygen in anticipation of the coughing jag that followed. Her lungs and throat burned with each push of bad air from her fevered body. The pressure in her chest seemed to anchor her to the bed, even as Sue tried to raise her to drink the tea.

Johnsy scrunched her face, feeling the heat from the cup singe her runny, tortured nose. She twisted her waist, seeking a comfortable position in Sue's arms, trying to avoid the inside of her lover's elbow that seemed to poke her in the side. "Just let me sleep, please," she requested, turning away from Sue to lie back and turn her pillow to a cool, dry spot.

Sue stood, holding the cup and saucer in hands that longed to hold the woman in the bed. "Alright, White Mouse," she said, taking the cup back to the kitchen area and placing another log on the fire. "We'll sweat that fever out of you," she said confidently, not realizing that wispy smoke seeped through the battered and cracked hearth, replenishing the greyish air. She went to sit at her desk in the niche to the right of the door.

Johnsy coughed again as Sue went to answer a knock. Behrman stood there, holding an old brown felt hat. He quizzed Sue constantly about whether Johnsy was eating or able to get any rest during the day. He knew she wasn't at night because he could hear her desperate attempts to breathe between the coughing spasms. He'd been reliving the last weeks of his wife's life, listening to the suffering of the young woman who reminded him so much of her.

"Does she need anything? Is there anything I can do?" he asked, glancing toward the bed, then turning pleading eyes on Sue.

She scratched her head, thinking. She'd been going through all of the home remedies she knew for a cold with no success. _Maybe a hot toddy, _she said to herself. She looked at Behrman, so eager to help. Brandy, cloves, lemon and honey,・she listed. "Can you get all of that?"

Behrman nodded, clapping the hat on his head, and hurrying the two blocks through the bustling crowds to Mae's.

The tavern was quiet in the early afternoon, the sunlight from the two small front windows fighting a losing battle with the closed atmosphere preferred by the patrons. Mae waved to him from the bar, where she was serving some of her more talkative customers and held up a finger to indicate she would be with him soon. Behrman sat at his favorite table, bouncing his knee in impatience. With his finger dipped in a water ring on the table top, the artist drew a face, barely conscious that it was a Christina/Johnsy amalgam.

Peters, the marginally successful photographer, entered and saw the older man through the faint light and smoke. He grinned and swaggered over to Behrman's table. The silly newsboy cap that he wore didn't hide the fact that, at thirty, his hair was thin and receding. More importantly, his little round wire-rimmed glasses didn't hide the fact that he didn't have an artistic eye. The true artists at Mae's considered him beneath them, just a technician and hanger-on, but he always tried to belong.

"Just the man I wanted to see," he greeted the tavern's senior statesman. He pulled some smooth, round glass pieces from his pocket. "I have some lenses for you to try on your private peep show," he said with a wink.

Behrman, in his anxiousness for Johnsy, was barely aware of the annoying Peters and continued his doodle while sipping the beer the waiter had brought to him while he waited for Mae.

The photographer pressed his point. "Come on, you were going to show us the drawings once you finish them. I especially want to see the tall blonde. I bet she's a real sweet one. Tell me, just between us, what does she like to do to the other girl and what does she like done to her, huh?" He unconsciously rubbed his leg and arched his eyebrow, licking his thin lips.

Behrman raised his head, his eyes coming together and mouth curling with a sneer. He shot up from his seat and grabbed Peters by his tight Eton collar. "You say anything about those girls again and I'll kill you!"

Mae, with a sweep of her skirts and surprising speed, borne of having broken up other fights, hurried over to them.

Peters twisted futilely and grasped Behrman's meaty hands to remove them from his throat. "But you said…" he spluttered.

"Never mind what I said!" Behrman howled. "I better never hear another word about them from you. Do you understand?" he asked with menace, bringing his gray-grizzled face closer to Peters' younger one. He loosened his hold enough to allow for an answer.

Peters was bug-eyed behind the glasses as he gasped and nodded in response. Behrman finally released him and Peters scurried from the tavern, clutching the lenses in his shaking hands.

Mae stood over them with her arms akimbo, shaking her head in resignation. "Come with me," she urged, placing her soft, veiny hand on Behrman's arm and leading him to the bar, overseen by her youthful portrait. He sat down heavily, exhaustedly, on one of the stools.

"What's this all about?" Mae asked. "You can tell me."

Behrman looked into her kindly green eyes, the emeralds of his bohemian years, and the story came pouring out of him.

Mae made little tsking sounds and shook her red and silvering head as Behrman detailed the misery in his apartment house, then patted his hand. She retreated to her sunny apartment behind the bar and soon returned with a cinnamon stick and some cloves and small glass bottles with stoppers, into which she poured her best rum and brandy. She charged him much less than the actual cost of the items. "Take care of her, Frank."

Behrman nodded and laid his hand on hers. "You're a good woman, Mae. Thank you."

Her heart uncontrollably quickened at that gesture. She'd never get over him. "Let me know when she's better. I'm sure it will be soon," she said encouragingly.

He said his thanks again and left the tavern, headed for home, with the makings of the hot toddy for...Christina.


	11. Chapter 11

Benita sat quietly in the pitch black closet into which her aunt had just locked her, knowing from experience that it would be worse for her if she cried or yelled.

"This is your own fault, you know," her Aunt Cornelia chastised her through the door. Benita tried to find a comfortable spot amid the clutter and didn't respond.

After her last punishment in there, she had removed some of the more uncomfortable items, just in case it happened again. She had hidden the cane that had poked into her side and the heavy wool pea coat that had belonged to a former gentleman friend of her aunt's. The strong smell of tobacco and smoke trapped in its fibers had choked her the entire time that she was in there with it.

_It's not so bad now_, she said to herself, better prepared to serve out her punishment. Under her breath she sang Tin Pan Alley songs and imagined that she was back home with her mother.

Cornelia shook her head in aggravation. Her sister's daughter used to be such a good girl but since she'd been there, she'd been nothing but trouble.…constantly whining about her need to find "Georgie," running away three times. Not even when Cornelia slapped her or put her in the closet would the willful girl stop talking about that boy.

"That's it," Cornelia said with a decisive swipe of her hands. "Martha probably won't live anyway and I don't want to deal with the child's grieving. I'll take her to the orphanage." Before she was able to carry out her plan though, Cornelia received word that Martha and the baby were well and that Benita could return home. Cornelia was glad to be rid of her.

The morning after her arrival back home, Benita started off early to find Georgie. She hurried to Mrs. Garrity's produce stand and asked if he had been there looking for Miss Johnsy.

The harried woman, waiting on two customers while trying to answer the little girl's question, affirmed that he'd been there every morning and waited over an hour for Miss Johnsy but she never came. "He's already been here and just left," Mrs. Garrity said, "and you should call him Mr. Martin, not Georgie," she admonished her.

"Yes Ma'am," said Benita, scurrying away to find the man in question.

She smiled and waved to people she knew or recognized, walking with a confident skip, until she moved further from her familiar neighborhood. Her step became more tentative and she kept her arms very close to her body and her eyes straight ahead. In her side vision she saw that the buildings were different. They were the same kinds of buildings- a printer's shop, a livery, dry grocer's and a delicatessen, but she didn't recognize the names on the store fronts. Neither did she recognize any of the vendors in front of them. The women exchanging pleasantries to each other as they sat on their stoops spoke a language that she didn't know.

She noticed the people that she passed now no longer had the same looks that she did. It seemed to be a rougher area. She saw boys about her age in a melee of fists. Nicholas hadn't started fighting and she hoped he never would. She was about to turn back for home when she saw in front of her a dark-haired man with a gentlemanly gait.

"Mr. Martin," she called, running toward him. The man continued walking, lost in his own thoughts and not noticing her hail. "Mr. Martin," she said louder, running faster, and dodging the other pedestrians. Her black ringlets bounced wildly as she began to sprint. "Georgie, Georgie!" she shouted in desperation.

George finally recognized his name and turned to see the petite, brown-eyed girl, introduced to him by Johnsy, running pell-mell toward him.

He stooped down to catch her. "Benita, what are you doing here?" he asked with a hint of parental concern, "Should you be so far from home?"

"Miss Johnsy needs you, Georgie," she said, panting. "Don't leave."

George's head drooped and in sad resignation he said, "No, Benita, Miss Johnsy doesn't want to see me. She hasn't even been to the market in days, when she knew I'd be waiting for her."

Benita shook her head violently, her long curls whipping around her face. "She's sick, Georgie. She's home and she needs you."

"What are you saying?" he asked, his brow wrinkling with worry. He led her to a chair in front of a dry goods store. Her feet in their scuffed, second-hand boots dangled, as she sat and tried to compose herself.

George bought her a bottle of soda and waited while she took a few sips. "Tell me again about Miss Johnsy," he coaxed her.

Benita took a deep breath and began her story. "She took care of my baby brother and Mama when they were sick. The doctor said they had…New Mona…and since Miss Johnsy took care of them, she'd have it too. I wanted to tell you right away but they sent me to my aunt's and she—" Benita's voice quivered but she stopped herself from saying anything against family, as she'd been taught that was something only bad girls did. "—And I couldn't find you until they let me come home."

"Benita," George said, kissing the top of her head, "you're my favorite little girl in the world." Her cheeks blushed a shy pink and she took a final sip of her soda.

"Let's go," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm going to see Miss Johnsy." He sauntered through the rough neighborhood as if he owned it, so relieved to know Johnsy hadn't rejected him. Benita trotted next to him to keep up with his cocky gait, hero worship clearly on her face.

"I'll tell her how you tracked me down and dragged me back to her. Do you think I should take her flowers?" he asked, as they approached a floral stall. Benita nodded with a big smile.

When they reached her building, George gave her a nickel. "Do you want me to give her a big hug for you?"

"Yes, Georgie," she said beaming. Then, her mission finally accomplished, she raced upstairs to be with her healthy, loving mother.

With school about to start soon and the money from Johnsy making it unnecessary for her and Nicholas to be on the street, the little family enjoyed the day together, with a hearty meal and story-telling. Martha demonstrated dances from the Old Country and her twins showed her the latest steps they'd learned and introduced her to Ragtime.

Benita was happy all day, imagining the reunion between Miss Johnsy and her gentleman.


	12. Chapter 12

Having found the painted brick, L-shaped apartment house, George held out his hand to the burly, older man sweeping the sidewalk. "Hello, I'm George Martin. I'm here to see Johns…Joanna Sinclair. We're old friends from California and I just learned that she's ill."

Behrman leaned on his broom and squinted his eyes in recognition of the young man as the one in the carriage. "I'll tell her roommate, Miss Clark, that you're here." He left George standing on the sidewalk and went inside the house.

Sue was intermittently placing cold rags on Johnsy's forehead, in a futile attempt to bring down her fever, while trying to read a letter that she had resting on her lap from Tilda.

_We've missed you at the meetings; I miss you wherever I am. I hope your friend gets well soon so that we may have your lovely face and clever mind with us again. _

_Dear Sue, I will speak frankly, because I believe you need to hear it. Perhaps this illness is a sign that it is time to change. You and she were very young when you became involved (You had to be, because you're very young now) and relationships do change. She, I'm sure has never been what you are intellectually or in matters of the heart. _

_Please consider the possibility that there is more for you and come back to us soon._

_Your very loving friend, Matilda (Tilda) James._

Sue answered Behrman's knock. She frowned when he told her about the guest and started to tell him to send him away, when Johnsy sat up in bed and said with a little animation, "A young man from California? Georgie…" She threw the covers off and tried to stand.

"Johnsy, what are you doing?" Sue rushed over to restrain her.

"I'm sorry, Sue," Johnsy said weakly, looking up at her and refusing to lie down again. "I…lov.…"

Sue looked into the face of her roommate and lover and felt her heart clench. _She's delirious, doesn't know what she's saying_, Sue tried to tell herself, but knew it was only an empty hope on her part. Still, she couldn't deny Johnsy the only thing that had made her seem life-like in days. Time for a change? "You stay here. I'll go talk to him."

The street was unusually quiet for that time of day and they weren't disturbed by passers-by as she held out her hand. "Mr. Martin, I'm Sue Clark, Johnsy's roommate. She's not well."

"So I've just learned," George answered, tipping his hat and completing the handshake, "I would like to see her."

Diminutive Sue had learned that by standing almost a foot away from someone when they were speaking to each other, that she wouldn't have to look up at the person or, worse, have the person look down on her. "How do you know her?" Sue asked, nearly at eye level.

George huffed in impatience. "We grew up together. I saw her a couple of weeks ago when her parents were here. Miss Clark, I can understand your wanting to protect your friend, but you should know I will see her, whether you like it or not."

Sue felt her heartbeat quicken with her flare of jealousy, as George's reference to the visit with Johnsy's parents confirmed for her that this was the man she saw kissing Johnsy.

"Miss Clark, where is she?" George demanded.

Sue stood there, simply glaring at him, every inch of her five foot frame tense with hostility. Even if it were time for a change, to have the man who had made that an issue standing before her...it was too much.

He'd also had enough. He stalked past her and into the building. "Johnsy? Johnsy, where are you?"

"Georg…" He heard a breathless response from behind the door on his left. He pushed it open and stepped into a room almost steaming in heat.

"Johnsy, love." He fell to one knee at the side of her bed, taking her hand as if it were his. Her face was flushed and shiny with sweat and her cotton gown was damp, clinging to her body, despite its voluminousness.

His fingertips touched the side of her face and forehead and registered her fever. Then he put his hands behind her knees and under her back to lift her from the bed with her blanket and carried her out the door. "You need fresh air, Darling."

Sue followed, protesting. "What are you trying to do, kill her? She can't go outside."

Johnsy dropped her eyes at the sudden glare of outdoor light, then gulped as much early fall air as she could. She loved the feel of the sun on her face. It was a pleasure to squint her eyes at it, matched only by the pleasure that Georgie was there.

"It's alright, Sue," she said with as much strength as she could muster. "It...feels good out here."

Sue looked at them—Johnsy, unconsciously laying her head on his chest and him holding her, meeting Sue's gaze challengingly. Time for a change? But what if she didn't want a change? The almost immediate improvement in Johnsy though was indisputable. "Hmph," Sue huffed, and turned on her heel and went back inside, prepared to deal later with that _callow_ man.

George carried Johnsy to the side yard, where he'd noticed a bench under the maple tree. He sat down with her on his lap and clutched her closely. From his time spent abroad in liberal, sophisticated company, he recognized Sue not just as Johnsy's friend, but as his rival. "Is she the 'someone else in your life'?"

Johnsy sighed and nodded with trepidation. Would he condemn her now and leave for good?

Instead, he rearranged her blanket and resumed his tight hug. "What would your parents say, you naughty girl? Do you plan to stay with her or is there a chance for me?"

Johnsy looked at him, fevered blue eyes round in amazement. "Do you mean you could still want me?"

George rocked her gently and grinned at the surprise on her face. "Yes, Johnsy, I could and do. I'm more bothered about your having kissed my brother than that mousy little woman."

"She's not mousy, Georgie," Johnsy protested.

"I prefer to think of her that way," he said with a smirk.

After telling Sue about the visitor, Behrman had gone upstairs to his room. Looking out his window, his breath caught in his throat. There was something familiar about the couple that he wanted to capture. He reached for his paper and pens to sketch the scene.

Johnsy sat contentedly with George, wondering exactly when her feelings for him had become so much stronger. But there was no doubt in her mind that these were the bigger, warmer arms that she'd longed for that night with Sue, before she'd become so sick.

George was also contemplative. He knew it was too soon, but he'd waited all of his life. If he let this chance go, he might not get another one. "Do you love me, Johnsy?"

"Yes," she answered with a nod, "I do very much," she said, as if just realizing and admitting it to herself.

He let out a relieved breath and continued with no hesitation, having wanted to ask for years, "And you'll marry me?"

Johnsy rested her head on his broad chest, enjoying the smoothness of his silky shirt on her face. It was a feeling that she never wanted to lose. "Yes," she said in a scratchy, quiet voice.

"Good," he said, with admirable restraint, settling for a gentle kiss on her forehead. "We'll get you well then begin planning the wedding. I think Benita would make a story-book flower girl, don't you?"

He told her about the little girl's concern for her and determination to bring them together. "Her mother and baby brother are fine now," he concluded, "Johnsy?"

She'd fallen into a comfortable sleep for the first time since her coughing had begun almost two weeks ago. He kissed her again and carried her back inside to lie on the sofa in the parlor. He then went to knock on the door of the women's apartment.

Sue answered the door with a telegram in her hand, opening it so quickly that she felt the rush of air, that she hoped was George returning Johnsy to their room, horrified with what he'd learned about them.

"She's asleep in the parlor, if you'd like to be with her," he said. "I'm going to make it more comfortable for her in here."

Normally, Sue would have argued the idea that the atmosphere she'd created was anything less than comfortable, but instead she eagerly went to sit with the sleeping Johnsy.

George had considered becoming a doctor before going into publishing. He opened the window and aired the sheets on the bed, making a note to himself to suggest Johnsy would be better able to rest in a bed of her own, preferably close to the window for the air circulation and sunshine. He inspected the fireplace and listed the repairs to be made and looked quizzically at the recent patches on the ceiling.

After placing his flowers in a glass and setting it next to the bed to which Johnsy would return, he went back to the parlor. "Miss Clark, may I speak with you?"

She patted Johnsy's arm as the woman slept, breathing softly, then slapped her feet down and rose from the chair, glowering at George.

They stood in front of the windows facing the street so that they wouldn't disturb Johnsy. Their shadows on the opposite wall, with the foot of distance between them, were more indicative of their combative attitudes than they allowed to show through their societal veneers.

George politely and a little ironically began, "We didn't finish our introductions before. I'm George Martin, Johnsy's fiancé, and you, I believe, are her good friend, Sue Clark, yes?"

Sue turned her head toward Johnsy, "Fiancé?"

"That's right, I asked her to marry me and she said yes."

"Don't you think you should wait until she isn't fever-addled?" Sue asked acidly.

George grinned. "I'll ask her every day. I'm sure I'd receive the same answer." He watched Sue glance at Johnsy again, pressing her lips together to control herself. "What do you do, Miss Clark?"

She turned her head toward him. "Why?" she asked, crossing her arms in a sign of her defensiveness.

George shrugged. "I'm curious if you can afford to take so much time from work to care for her."

She looked down. The telegram that she'd been reading was from her boss, saying that if she didn't return to work by tomorrow, she'd be fired.

George continued, "I'm in a position where I can do a great deal of my work outside the office. I believe I should take over her daily care."

Sue bristled, her fists clenching and chest heaving to make the cameo brooch on her blouse rise and fall.

He shook his head. "I'm not taking her away from here. I know Johnsy; she wouldn't want to lose a friend. But her life is changing now and her relationships are changing. I hope you can adjust to that because I know you're important to her."

Sue smiled and tilted her head. "Do you?"

"Yes," George said firmly, "I do." He took a step closer and, looking down on Sue, said, "Her relationships….your relationship with her…is changing. It will be better for Johnsy if you can accept that. If we can see each other without tension, it can only help her. Don't you agree?"

As if synchronized, George and Sue looked toward the woman they both loved. Johnsy's blonde hair cascaded off the sofa cushion where her head rested and she made tiny breathing noises in her sleep, unaware of the battle of wills being fought over her.

Sue recalled her feelings after seeing Johnsy in the carriage—the reinforcement of her buried knowledge that she would lose her some day to a man. That had only been strengthened by the letter from Tilda, in which she'd used the same language about relationships changing. She sighed. Was it time for such a change? Johnsy seemed to be ready for it, even if she wasn't.

She looked again at George. Did he meet the standard for a man to be worthy of her? He obviously loved her and Johnsy was improved in the short time since he'd arrived. He looked like a man of means, which was important to Johnsy, who knew no other life but pampered. Even in their current downscale existence, the girl had never wanted for anything with her parents' generous allowance. Of course Sue wasn't attracted to George herself, but conceded his good features, pleasant, cultured voice and take-charge competence. _She could do worse, _she said to herself, grudgingly nodding her assent.

"I'm glad we've had this discussion," George said. "I'm going to talk to that man…"

"Behrman," interjected Sue.

"…Behrman...about some accommodations for her comfort and take care of some things at my office. Has a doctor seen her yet?"

Sue harrumphed. She was a New Englander who had been taught common sense was better than what most doctors could do, but pneumonia defied common sense.

"I'll arrange for the doctor to see her," George said. He went to the sofa and knelt by Johnsy, still sleeping with much less severe coughs, after being removed from the stifling room. "I'll be back later, my dear," he told her. "Dream well of our life together."

Sue allowed herself an exaggerated eyeroll.


	13. Chapter 13

George and Johnsy were in their favorite position, with him holding her, wrapped in her blanket, on the bench in the side yard at the apartment house. Around them were the midday sounds and sights of Greenwich Village—street vendors with food items, penny press books and sewing notions, the roll and clang of the trolley car in the distance. There was a livery just a few doors down and they could hear the horses neighing. It was just far enough away so that the smell of the animals was pleasant, not offensive. Passersby waved and called to the young couple, so obviously comfortable and in love.

"I think you might be kissable again," he teased, splaying one of his big hands across her mouth.

She looked into his handsome, mischievous face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't believe you're contagious anymore," he explained, "at least I hope you're not, because I can't wait any longer." George lowered his head for a soft kiss, then traced her mouth with one finger. "Pretty Johnsy, who kisses too soon and too well. I only got to taste and feel these lips that one night and then not again for more than two weeks." His voice lifted. "But you're so much better now. Soon the blush will be back in your cheeks, we'll get some meat on these exquisite bones..." He ran his hand up and down her back through the blanket. "Ah, you'll make the most beautiful bride," he intoned, holding her closer, and with a little growl suggesting his suppressed desire, added, "and I can't wait until you're my wife."

She laughed a little at George's expression. She knew she loved him but hadn't completely reconciled this passionate young man with her funny childhood friend. Looking up at the maple tree in its russet splendor, she said, "I should have brought my drawing materials. I need to capture the tree before the leaves start falling."

"We'll plan on that tomorrow," George offered, nuzzling the side of her face. "I think that will be its peak. Now I should get you back inside. It's not as warm as it was last week when we first sat out here."

He stood with her in his arms and carried her inside to the front parlor. "I'm going to get your bed ready for you," he said, leaning over her sitting on the sofa, "then I'll come back for you."

Johnsy nodded.

"Show me your compliant smile," he requested.

She gave him that look from her arsenal and followed him with her eyes as he left the room, then looked around. She hadn't spent time there before becoming ill and this was the first day that she was alert enough to be aware of her surroundings. The light from the two large front windows, framed by floral drapes, prevented the room, with its bulky, dark wood furnishings, from being gloomy. There were bucolic watercolors on the walls and an impressive painting over the mantel of a young blonde woman.

With her artist's eye she could tell that they were all done by the same painter. She walked gingerly to the one directly across from her in the long room and saw the signature F Behrman. She touched the picture of a lakeside picnic set-up for two, admiring the consistency of the brush strokes and the vibrancy and blending of colors.

George re-entered and was surprised to see her standing. He hurried to help balance her. "You are getting stronger if you were able to walk that far without support," he said happily, standing behind her and wrapping his arms around her, "good for you."

"Georgie, look," she said, pointing excitedly, "Mr. Behrman never mentioned he could paint like this. I know he said he painted buildings for a living, but this is wonderful. And he did all of them, even that portrait."

George glanced at the canvas over the fireplace, recognizing the similarities of the woman depicted and Johnsy. "Hmm, how would you like for me to commission him for a portrait of you?"

"Really, Georgie? You're so thoughtful."

He pushed her hair back then buried his face against the side of her neck. "You will be loved and desired every day of your life. It isn't necessarily thoughtful of me to want to have a portrait of a woman I love to look at."

Johnsy turned to smile at him and give him a tight squeeze.

He sighed in his happiness. "Let's get you back to your room now. You need some rest."

He led her down the hall and to the left to the apartment she shared with Sue. Johnsy had a new small bed set at an angle in front of the window overlooking the yard and he had a matching chair and table next to it. Sue had grumbled that the room was becoming too cluttered and he'd smiled, saying if that were the case, he could just sit in the bed with Johnsy, cuddling her all day. Sue had conceded to the new furniture.

From her bed Johnsy watched George as he fixed her some tea. He just seemed so comfortable in any setting. She supposed it was because he'd been in so many. "What were you doing in the French Foreign Legion, Georgie," she finally asked the question that had intrigued her for weeks.

George huffed and brought her the cup of tea, sitting in his white chair. "It was just a romantic notion," he said with a shrug, hoping that would satisfy her. "What did your parents say about the engagement?"

They talked about their plans, holding hands and smiling at each other, until Johnsy drifted off to sleep and George could do some of his office work. He glanced at her sleeping face and considered her question. _You're the reason, Johnsy. You or not being able to have you has been the reason for almost everything I've done in my life. Can I ever make you love me that much?_

Sue came home that evening after work and a Suffragettes meeting. She and George spoke briefly and cordially and he left for the night after giving Johnsy only a kiss on the hand, showing some consideration for Sue's feelings, now that he had what they'd both wanted.

_Is that the best he can do_? Sue inwardly criticized him with a little pleasure. _Oh well. Johnsy made her bed and she can lie in it…probably alone, _she added to herself with a smirk.

Johnsy slept in a cocoon of contentment, after another routine, happy day in her recovery, with the two people she loved most.

She awoke the next morning to find the tree looking even more spectacular than it had before. "Georgie was right," she bubbled, "this is its peak day."

At her request, Sue gathered the art supplies for her to take outside when she and George went out later. "I have another meeting this evening so I'll be out late tonight," Sue said, walking over to give Johnsy a little peck on top of her head. "Enjoy your day, dear."

"Have a good day and meeting, Sue," Johnsy called after her, happy that her roommate was adapting so well to the changes in their lives. _I love Sue._

George arrived soon after her departure with bowed head and a somber expression.

"I have all of my things ready for drawing today," Johnsy said, smiling brightly.

He sat in his chair by her bed and held her hands. "I can't stay today, my darling," he said, heaving sadly. "I received a telegram last night that my father has died."

"Oh, Georgie, I'm so sorry," she said in a sad voice. She'd always liked Anton Martin. She scooted to the edge of the bed and took George's head in her hands to cradle it against her shoulder.

He sat for a moment in the rather awkward position, then turned slightly to kiss her just below her jaw. "I have to catch a train in less than an hour. I've sent someone to take a message to Sue telling her to come home for you. I'm sorry that I have to leave you."

"Give your mother my love. Do I have time to write her a sympathy note?"

He gave her paper and pen and she quickly wrote some sentiments for Mrs. Martin and folded the sheet to hand back to him.

"She's very glad that you'll soon be her daughter-in-law," George said, standing awkwardly, "Pa was too." He felt terrible. She was still so weak and frail-looking and he was deserting her. "There might be some estate matters to be addressed," he added, reluctant to go, "but I'll return as soon as I can."

Johnsy knew how badly she'd miss him but was trying to be strong for him. She reached out to place her thin, still pale hand over his. "Stay as long as your mother needs you."

George shook his head in frustration. Leaving her when she was so vulnerable was going to be the hardest thing he'd ever done.

She turned her head toward the window to hide her unhappiness. As was often the case though, her action only highlighted what she tried to conceal and George's stiff upper lip quivered.

"I promise you, Johnsy," he said, falling to the side of the bed and holding her in a determined grip, "I'll be back before the last leaf falls from that tree!"


	14. Chapter 14

"I can't wait to be his wife," Johnsy said out loud, sitting up in her bed after George had left.

He'd sat for a few extra minutes for Johnsy to sketch him quickly, since her art supplies were handy. Studying the drawing now, she mused, "How did I miss before that he looks Italian?" —his olive complexion, dark hair and brown eyes that seemed more knowing than would be considered appropriate for someone of his age. She stroked the face she'd drawn—high cheekbones, thick eyebrows and square jaw and that devilish little mustache, so much more appealing than the elaborate whiskers so many men had. "Casanova might have looked like this," she said giddily.

She touched her mouth, thinking of the way he'd kissed and held her when he left, letting her feel all of his pent up longing. Her breathing was rapid and she felt warmth stirring within her . She combed through her hair with her fingers, then massaged the back of her neck.

"I should have drawn him full-length," she continued dreamily, still holding the picture as she leaned back on her pillows. His broad shoulders and nipped waist made him the perfect model for a frock coat. The material seemed to strain just a bit over his chest. "I wonder what it looks like."

"I wonder if his real name is Giorgio." The smile slowly spread across her face, increasing in intensity, like her new enthusiasm for her fiancé, now that she was feeling better. "Giorgio and Joanna Martino," she said with a titter. "I'll be so well by the time he comes back, there'll be no question of how kissable I am. She closed her eyes and, imagining their reunion, whispered, "Before the last leaf falls."

Her eyes flew open and she jerked upright in her bed. The tree. She should be outside drawing it and testing some of the leaves with her paints to get the right colors. It would be a shame to miss this opportunity, since her paint box was right there, waiting for her.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood on shaky legs. _So I'm a little dizzy. Giorgio said I'm getting stronger. And Sue will be here soon._

Slipping on her new satin slippers, a gift from George, she wrapped the blanket around her. She swayed slightly as she picked up her supply case and headed out the door. Her staggering continued, walking up the hallway and out the front door, then down the stairs. Turning right, she went into the side yard.

Her breath was labored after the exertion and she dropped onto the bench to rest as she got out her paper and pens to begin sketching. After twenty minutes or so on the bench, she stood and walked in the damp grass to draw from different angles.

Her concentration was on her task, not the milk wagon that rumbled past the house, or the wind that was becoming stronger, except to be annoyed when it rifled her drawing pages. She kept her head down as she walked around the tree, stooping to pick up some select leaves, intact and crisp, with varying degrees of red tones on their surfaces and in their veins.

_"_Like skin_," _Johnsy said through her labored breaths, suddenly inspired to depict the tree as a body, almost a person, with cognizance and feelings. She brought the leaves back to the bench, her head spinning. She ran her hand over her throbbing brow, then let her head drop to the bench, deciding to lie down for a moment to recover. Sue would be there in just a minute anyway.

At her office Sue still hadn't received George's message. The courier from his firm was sidetracked on the way by a boxing match and an argument in front of a store over a spilled ice block, conducted with much gesticulation in foreign languages. Johnsy had been asleep on the bench for over an hour, unaware of the wind blowing and temperature dropping, before he finally reached Sue's office.

She looked at the time George had written on the missive and scolded the young man for his dereliction. She got her hat and short cape and quickly prepared to leave, stopped only by her friend Tilda, arriving for their lunch date.

Matilda James was older than Sue had first thought, but very well-preserved. Her figure was still slender, as she'd avoided what she called "the ravages of reproduction," and she was quite active, becoming involved in her causes, not just sending money or posing for photographs on the rotogravure. Her personal life was equally as robust. She had explained to Sue that she and her wealthy husband had an understanding and were free to do whatever they liked with other people, as long as they were discreet.

She was disappointed to hear that Sue wouldn't be able to keep their date but offered to take her home in her carriage. Sitting next to Sue in the equipage, she looked at the younger woman quietly for a minute, then asked, "Why are you still taking care of her, or even living there? She chose that man over you."

Sue shrugged. "She's been very ill; she needs me. What's happened was inevitable. I knew she still liked men."

Tilda took her hand. "Well then I suppose you've never been able to be completely comfortable with her; you've just been waiting for this to happen, you poor dear. Perhaps you need someone who has already had a large sampling and knows she wants only you."

Sue turned to look at her in surprise. Matilda met her gaze and squeezed her hand, leaning over for a small kiss. As they reached the apartment house, she said in farewell, "I hope she recovers soon so we can talk about this at greater length."

Sue nodded, still bewildered, then got out of the carriage and waved as it drove away. Hurrying up the steps she said to herself, _Matilda might be interested in me_? _She's so attractive and sophis… _

Her train of thought stopped, as she opened the door and saw that Johnsy wasn't in the apartment. She looked in the parlor and kitchen behind their apartment, becoming increasingly worried, then ran outside, calling for Johnsy over the gusting wind.

She heard the familiar sound of the cough and found her in the side yard, tangled in her blanket, as she struggled to rise from the bench. "What are you doing out here?" asked Sue with concern and irritation.

"Sketching," answered Johnsy between shivers and coughs.

Sue shook her head with impatience, as she straightened out the blanket, then threw it over the other woman's shoulders and led her back inside to her bed. She removed the sodden slippers and put some clean, dry stockings on Johnsy's feet and slipped a warm nightdress over her head, tsking throughout her ministrations.

She boiled water for tea and Johnsy sat on the edge of the bed, beginning to ramble, "You're so good to me, Sue. I don't deserve you, especially since I've fallen in love with Giorgio."

"Giorgio?" was Sue's dry-wit comment.

Johnsy nodded with a big smile. "Did you know he's Italian, like Casanova or da Vinci, Dona-tello…" she continued, leaning back with an exaggerated yawn.

Sue grinned and pulled the covers up on Johnsy, as she gave her the tea. "You were my friend before we became more. But I've known from the beginning that you were just very loving and playful. You were so pretty though, I couldn't resist trying. I suppose we've used each other."

Johnsy reached out her hand for Sue, who sat down in the chair next to the bed. "You'll find someone, Sudie, who can love you better than I can."

Maybe if she didn't look like such an angel, in her high neck gown, with the sunbeams playing in her blonde hair, this wouldn't be so difficult. Sue swallowed hard then smiled a little too brightly, saying, "I might already have."

"Really," Johnsy responded with a relieved smile, "tell me about her."

"Well," Sue began, "her name is Matilda…"

The maple outside the window cast a long shadow across the glass, like someone eavesdropping on the friends as they had their first girl talk in years, chattering and laughing the way they'd always done in their dorm room at Vassar, before they became…"more".

* * *

><p>The feeling of optimism and new energy in the house with George's presence was contagious.<p>

For Behrman, watching the younger man with Johnsy was like looking at a 30 year-old reflection. Johnsy looked so much like Christina and Behrman saw a lot of himself, or the self that he liked to think he'd been, in George. He remembered those days, keeping his beautiful blonde happy and hopeful, even through the disappointments.

Johnsy's return to health and George's devotion to her gave Behrman the impetus to pursue his last chance for happiness…with Mae.

He spent most of his time in her tavern, talking for hours between customers. During the afternoon lull, just before the time that men would come in after work, the room was less noisy and smoky, an atmosphere for seeing clearly. Behrman confessed to her the extent of his spying on Johnsy and Sue and his subsequent patching of the holes, when his conscience finally wouldn't allow him to continue.

"When did you make the holes?" asked Mae, placing another glass before him on the dulled surface of the mahogany bar. "I don't remember your talking about watching people before."

Behrman had his hands folded, as he sat at the bar across from her. It was as if he were a penitent, asking for forgiveness and maybe a little understanding. "It was Christina's idea," he began. "After she lost the second baby, she wanted us to stay in contact during the day when she was expecting the third. My studio was where my apartment is now. I made the holes so I could catch a glimpse of her or hear her if she called me. There used to be some in the kitchen and the apartment on the other side, but I patched them a long time ago. I was never interested in watching or drawing Mr. Graham or any of the families that were in the girls' room before." He took a sip of his beer and raised his eyes to his oldest friend again. "I haven't drawn in a long time, but when those two young women stood before me, I felt they'd been...given to me, to finally be able to create my masterpiece."

"…whether they knew it or not," Mae finished for him as she wiped the counter with her omnipresent towel, the censure in her tone softened by her slight, knowing smile. "You forget who you're talking to, Frank. I know you've always had a bit of decadence in you."

Behrman looked at her steadily—the auburn hair and green eyes, the high color in her still smooth cheeks. "Am I hopeless, Mae? Could a woman as good as you find something to like about me?"

Her heartbeat quickened as it would have more than 30 years ago and she grinned in spite of herself, "Only if she'd spent more than half of her life looking for it. You've been lonely, Frank, and spoiled before that. It's not a big surprise that you did something pathetic."

He winced, hating the sound of that word from her mouth.

"Does your confession only go as far as me?" She asked. "Are you going to tell the young man what you've seen?"

With blinking eyes that went wide and a mouth that turned down in a frown, Behrman's face went from startled, to confused, then worried. He'd had a few conversations with George, in which the younger man had made hints that he didn't entirely trust him and that if he should ever find those doubts to be well-founded, Behrman would suffer. The older man was taller and bigger, but knew from George's intensity alone that it wasn't an idle threat. "Should I?"

Again Mae grinned. "While you might indeed deserve to be punched by him, she and the other woman deserve their privacy…something you've never understood."

He hung his head shamefully and with dashed hope. "I guess I'll be goin'," he mumbled, climbing down from the stool and heading to the door.

"See you tomorrow," Mae said, with a hint of promise.

He turned back to look at her. Her jewels for eyes were sparkling the way they had when he'd first met her. Her smile had that old allure.

He returned the smile and whistled all the way home. The gas streetlights each seemed to turn on as he passed, creating a path as bright as his hopes...for all of them. He was about to climb the stairs to his room to begin a new drawing of Mae, when he was stopped by the sound of Johnsy's hacking, racking cough. _Oh no, not again, _he said to himself.

With a deep sigh he knocked on the door of the apartment to ask the same question, "Is there anything I can do?"


	15. Chapter 15

Johnsy's relapse was intense, almost vengeful, as if Mr. Pneumonia took it personally that she'd tried to escape his grasp and get better.

In the first few days of the recurrence, she divided her time in bed staring at the door and out the window at the red maple tree. In the following days, she began to concentrate on the tree and the leaves that fell from it, looking occasionally at the door. After that she ignored the door and counted the leaves falling from the tree.

"He's not coming back," she lamented to Sue from her bed, which she'd barely stepped out of in days. "He's decided he doesn't love me after all."

"Why would you say that? He's mad for you," Sue tried to reassure her.

Johnsy shook her head. Her now lank blonde hair didn't move with her action. "No," she insisted through her tears, "He doesn't love me…maybe because of what he knows about us."

Sue didn't answer. She knew that she had goaded George with suggestions of just how well she knew Johnsy. She hadn't thought that it had made much of an impression though. He'd just grin and remind her that she was speaking about a past, where he had a future with Johnsy, in which he'd discover things for himself, thank you. Now that he was away from her though, not seeing her face or reveling in her exuberant and sensual nature, maybe the women's history bothered him more than he had indicated. So Sue looked at Johnsy with sympathy, tinged with guilt, and worried, as the sick woman sank further into despondency.

The apartment took on characteristics of a hospital ward. The smells of strong medicine hung in the air, like a scented shroud, and it was quiet, with little conversation between the roommates. Sue sat in her office nook and studied and read the letters she received from Tilda James, still questioning her devotion to her former lover. Johnsy, in her small, sterile-looking white bed, coughed and sniffled and kept track of the maple's progress, through drawings of it and the remaining leaves.

Despite her determination to pretend the door didn't exist, Johnsy gasped at the sound of a knock and felt her heart jump. She visibly drooped when she saw it was the doctor.

The busy doctor had aged during this onslaught by Mr. Pneumonia and could best be described as charcoal gray. His suit was charcoal gray; his hair was charcoal gray. The whites of his eyes and skin, from lack of regular meals and sleep, not to mention constant exposure to illness, also had a grayish tinge.

"Miss Sinclair, how are you?" He got out his stethoscope to listen to her congested lungs and weak heart.

Johnsy sighed. "Fine, thank you," she said unconvincingly.

"Johnsy, don't lie to the doctor," Sue scolded her. "He can't help you if you do."

The doctor's eyes went wide with revelation. "You're Miss Johnsy? There's a little girl who was awfully upset about your being exposed to her sick baby brother. I've been looking for you…didn't realize I've been treating you all along as Joanna Sinclair."

"Benita," said Johnsy with a weak smile.

He nodded. "That's right—pretty little thing with big brown eyes."

"I'd like to see her," she entreated to the doctor, attempting a deep breath for him.

He shook his head. "You're still contagious. She could become sick if she came in to see you." With his stethoscope, the doctor heard her heart beat drop. "Maybe she could stand outside that window and talk to you," he suggested. "Would you like that?" He felt her pulse react, as she nodded enthusiastically.

He knew that a patient's frame of mind was important in healing. If a visit from Benita could improve "Miss Johnsy's" outlook and give her a fighting chance, he would facilitate that visit. Not only was doing whatever he could for a patient part of his oath, but George Martin had paid him well to do just that.

"I want her cured by the time I return so she can marry me," he had said, handing over a sheaf of bank notes.

The busy doctor smiled at the young woman. "Alright then, I'll go by and talk to her mother. Maybe she can come with me tomorrow."

The next day Benita, in a freshly-washed frock and borrowed pinafore, stood outside the window, shuffling her feet in some of the crunchy fallen leaves. "Oh, Miss Johnsy, I wish you could feel better."

Johnsy, with her hair piled loosely on top of her head to minimize her skeletal appearance, smiled. "I'm fine, Benita. I'm glad your family's well now."

"But the doctor said you're not getting better, like Georg….Mr. Martin wanted so he could marry you," Benita said, her childish voice going higher with anxiety.

Johnsy glanced at the tree and the few leaves left on it. "I don't think Mr. Martin is coming back to me, Benita."

"Yes he is," her little friend insisted, pressing tight fists on the window sill. "He told the doctor he is and he's a gentleman."

Johnsy's smile was sad for no one but herself, as she finished the pen and ink portrait of Benita she had drawn while talking to her. "Here," she said, passing it to her through the window. "Take this to your mother and tell her that I said she has a precious daughter."

Benita sensed this was a good-bye. "Please don't give up, Miss Johnsy. Even if Georgie...I mean Mr. Martin, can't come back to you, other people care about you. There's Mrs. Garrity, and my brother Nicholas and Mama and…"

"Thank you, dear. I care about all of you too."

Benita, holding the rolled drawing with delicate fingers, stepped back a little to stand next to the doctor. "And you won't give up?"

Johnsy smiled at her and carefully framed her answer, "I'll do everything I can to be strong again. 'Bye for now."

Benita smiled in relief and waved, then turned away with the doctor.

Sue approached Johnsy from where she'd been sitting in her office nook with a newspaper. "Look," she said pointing to an article, "There's a telegraph strike in California. So even if George is late, he can't tell you why. It's not because he doesn't love you."

Johnsy at first grabbed the paper eagerly and read through the item. She then caught a glimpse of her sickly reflection in the window's glass. She was aghast. What would Georgie think if he saw her now, so far from the vibrancy and beauty that he loved? She crumpled the paper in her lap.

"It doesn't matter," she said, slumping so her chin almost touched her chest, "I'm dying."

"You are not," Sue insisted with her hands on her hips. "Instead of saying that, you need to tell yourself that you'll be healthy again."

Johnsy shook her head. "No, I'm dying. I don't have the strength anymore to pretend I'm not." Lying back down with resignation, she looked out at the tree, once a symbol of something to eagerly await, she now associated it with her downfall. "By the time the last leaf falls, I'll be dead."

As if agreeing with her, the tree bowed in the wind, brushing a nearly bare branch on the window, seemingly taunting with the warning, _It won't be long now_. It continued to shed its leaves in a red and brown cascade that diminished to a smattering.

Just a couple of days later, all of them but those on the top-most branches were gone and Johnsy still hadn't heard anything from George. She became increasingly morose, barely raising her head from the pillow. Her sole occupation was the maple tree and its rusty leaves.

"Dammit, Johnsy, you have to eat something," Sue exclaimed, at the end of her rope.

Johnsy lay with her back to her, one arm raised so her fingers gripped the rail of the headboard and her head rested on her arm. "I don't want to eat, Sue; I don't care about food," she said in a very weak voice.

Sue shook her head in exasperation. "I can't believe you've let yourself get this way just because of a man. Don't you remember? You had such plans for yourself. You wanted to paint the Bay of Naples."

"It's not just George," Johnsy explained from her pitiable position. It's…everything. I'm dying because I fell asleep under that tree. George's father died and took him away from me. I fell in love with George and hurt you. We have no control. It's not something we can fight. And I'm tired of trying. I might as well die with the tree."

"The tree isn't dying, Johnsy, it's resting. It will look healthy again in the spring. You can be healthy again too. Your cough is better." Sue bent her head and clutched it between her hands. "I don't care that you love George," she said through a grimace, each word forced out from deep inside her. "I just don't want you to allow yourself to die."

Johnsy sighed heavily. "Sue, why don't you go out tonight? It's been so long since you've been anywhere. And I just want to sleep and be alone." She closed her eyes and went to sleep almost instantly.

"I'm not leaving you," Sue cried. She received no answer. She ran out of the room then outside the house, weeping.

"Miss Clark," said Behrman, raking leaves, "Is there something wrong with…Johnsy?"

"She…" Sue's voice cracked with emotion. "She said she wants to die."

It was around this time of year that Christina had passed away. Behrman connected the snap in the air, the colors and the sound of the wind with death and grief and devastating loneliness. He didn't want to feel that again and didn't want Sue to feel it. There had to be some way to avoid that this time. "Is there anything I can do?"

Sue shook her head and tried to speak through her sobs. "She said she's tired of fighting. She said she'll die with the last leaf from that tree." Sue pointed an accusatory finger at the maple, as if it were to blame for everything. "If only there were some way of keeping the leaves on it to give her hope," she added with a sad chuckle, rubbing the tears from her eyes.

Behrman briefly turned his head toward the tree, naked except for a small cluster of red foliage close to the house, then he looked back at Sue. He felt uncomfortable having contact with the women because of his earlier interest in them, but he saw that Sue needed comforting. He tentatively put one of his large, still sensitive hands on her shoulder. "She's not going to die because of a leaf. We're not going to let her give up." His eyes swept the yard and the leaves that he'd raked into a pile. "You're right. She just needs something to give her hope. We'll figure out what that is."

Sue looked up at him, hazel eyes soft with gratitude, then turned to go back to the house. He picked up an armload of leaves to carry to the other end of the building and entered from the rear door, repeating to himself, "...something to give her hope..."

Sue was on the threshold to enter the house when a carriage pulled up to the curb and Matilda called for her from the inside. Sue looked around to see if anyone noticed, then she ran down the stairs to climb into the vehicle. The interior's supple black leather upholstery, cushioned walls and velvet drapes covering the windows all helped muffle her sobs.

Tilda held her close, caressing her head and top of her back with a gloved hand. For years she'd told people and herself that she had chosen not to have children, but she'd actually been crushed when she'd learned after a couple of miscarriages that she could never carry a baby. She'd thrown herself into charity work and community causes and sought excitement for herself. She'd had, as she'd told Sue, a "large sampling" of male and female lovers and had encouraged her husband to do so as well. There was no jealousy between them and they were content.

This small, intelligent Mainer could disrupt that equilibrium. Tilda felt for her as she hadn't for anyone since early in her marriage. She smoothed Sue's chestnut hair and tried to soothe her worries. Her body tensed at the mention of Johnsy, whom she considered a bit of a brat, but she knew Sue couldn't loosen her ties to her first love until she was better.

"Of course you're not willing to go out," the older woman said in a warm, comforting tone, "but you shouldn't be alone with her and her misery. I'll come to sit with you. I'll bring dinner for us to have in the parlor and you can look in on her occasionally. Would you like that?"

Sue nodded. "Thank you, Tilda," she said with a quick kiss, before hurrying from the carriage to return to her patient.

Johnsy lay awake with her eyes closed for hours, telling herself that she wasn't hungry, that she didn't need food. Was that roast beef that she smelled?

Sue took a few bites of her roast beef sandwich but kept looking toward the hallway, alert to any sounds from her roommate.

Johnsy listened to the wind rattle the glass in the window. "The leaves can't survive that," she whispered, almost happy in her morbid thoughts. "They'll be gone in the morning…and so will I…"

The roar of the gusts nearly panicked Sue, causing her to run to the windows and view the maelstrom of litter and leaves blowing over the street.

"Darling, relax, it's our first evening alone," Tilda said, trying to draw Sue back from the window. She turned the small knob on the wall that controlled the crystal chandelier and the room filled with the hazy glow and smell of the gas lights.

"Don't you hear that wind, Tilda?" Sue asked, rubbing her forehead with worry. "The leaves can't last through that."

"Then she'll just have to realize that she isn't a part of the cycle of a deciduous tree," Tilda responded, standing in front of Sue and rubbing her hands on the younger woman's arms. "Ugh, the conceit," she added contemptuously as she rolled her eyes.

"You don't understand her," Sue said, shaking her head.

Tilda sighed in irritation. "No, and I don't care to. Still, her health is as important to me as it is to you, because until she's well, you can't break away from her." She placed a well-manicured hand on the side of Sue's face and lowered her voice. "And I can't become the great love of your life."

Sue looked in Tilda's silvery eyes in bewilderment. It was foreign to her to be pursued and desired. The pursuing was always her role with Johnsy. Her arms went around Tilda and she ran her hands up and down her back, enjoying the scrunchy feel of Tilda's lace blouse.

Their kisses became more intense, their embrace stronger. They sat cuddled on the parlor's velvet sofa, speaking in lovers' timbre. "I can't promise you anything, Matilda, except that I know if I choose to live without you, I'm giving up my best chance for happiness and fulfillment."

"And you're much too smart to do that," Tilda said, stroking the younger woman's cheek. "Now, why don't you check on your melodramatic blonde while I put the food away for her."

"For her?"

Tilda smiled, rising to her feet and lifting Sue with her. "Of course, why do you think I brought hot roast beef and bread? So the aroma would entice her in her sleep. She'll be hungry in the morning."

Sue grinned. "Oh, Tilda," she said, deeply impressed with woman's godd-intentioned calculations, "You're brilliant." She held her arm as far as the room she shared with Johnsy, then pointed out to Tilda the kitchen at the end of the hallway and to the left. With her mind on romance, she no longer paid attention to the wind and other noises outside, as she glanced at Johnsy to see that she was sleeping soundly. _What a beautiful, clever woman Tilda is,_ she said to herself, thinking how nice it was to feel wanted, rather than just accommodated. _Maybe I sould scurry all over her, _she tittered, as she picked up her big, patchwork quilt from her bed.

Back in the parlor she turned down the gas light, curled up on the sofa, and anticipated the return of the woman who had actually said that she wanted to be the great love of her life, someone who had chosen her, someone she wouldn't have to worry about losing.


	16. Chapter 16

"Sue, Sue, come here, quick! Susan, where are you?"

Sue jumped up at the sound of Johnsy's cries. The morning sun lighting the parlor, where she'd been sleeping in Tilda's arms, caused her to squint and stumble on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"I'm coming, Darling," she called in response to Johnsy, fumbling to re-button her shirtwaist and hurry down the hall to the apartment. She opened the door to find Johnsy sitting up in bed, excitedly pointing out the window to the tree.

"Look!" Johnsy exclaimed, "One leaf survived through all that wind last night."

Sue followed her sight line and saw that there was, indeed, a lone red maple leaf, clinging to its branch that touched the painted brick building. She sighed in relief.

"It doesn't want to die, Sue. It fought the elements," Johnsy said with wonder, her blue eyes bright at having witnessed a miracle.

Tilda stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, having followed Sue to the apartment. She watched the two younger women closely, gauging for herself the scope and intensity of their feelings for each other.

Johnsy continued looking at the leaf as if it were a beloved friend and asked, "Did I smell roast beef last night?"

Sue laughed, her great anxiety lifted. She moved to hug her roommate and stoop down on the floor by her bed. "Yes, you did," she chortled. "Would you like some…maybe some nice, warm bread with jam?"

"Oh, that sounds delicious," Johnsy said, licking her lips. "Thank you, Sue. You're so good to me."

Sue quickly stood to go to the house's main kitchen, behind their apartment, where Tilda had stored the food the previous night.

"…and some tea too?" requested Johnsy.

"Of course," Sue said, halting her progress to the door and scratching her head, not sure if she should warm the food first in the other room or fix the tea there.

"I'll get her tea," Tilda offered, stepping into the room and putting her hands on Sue's shoulders, "You take care of the breakfast."

Sue smile and mouthed a "Thank you" then hurried off to the kitchen.

Johnsy tilted her head and peered with curiosity at the unknown woman. Tilda used the water pump to fill the kettle then set it on the wood stove. "Miss Sinclair," she said with formality, "I'm so glad to finally have the chance to speak to you. I'm Matilda James."

"Oh, that's right," said Johnsy, interest waning, as she returned her gaze to the leaf, "I've heard Sue mention you."

Tilda answered with a tight-lipped smile. "Yes, and I've heard her mention you," she said, moving with her stately walk to get the cup, saucer and tea, "more often than I care to remember."

Johnsy slowly turned her head toward the attractive older woman and cocked it questioningly, as the kettle steamed and whistled.

Matilda brought the tea to her and sat in the chair next to the bed. "You've given everyone quite a fright, you know. You've caused Sue, especially, a great deal of worry…that on top of the hurt you've already caused her."

Johnsy looked down at her hands holding the tea cup and took a nervous sip.

Tilda continued, "I want to make sure you don't do that again."

"I've never intentionally hurt or worried her," Johnsy defended herself, "I love Sue."

Tilda stood and began pacing deliberately around the bed, keeping her eyes on a confused Johnsy. "That, I believe, is the first item to be made clear," Tilda said, the sound of her dark green silk skirt as crisp as her demeanor. "What do you mean that you 'love' Sue? Do you love her as she has always hoped you would, or just as a best friend who thought she was doing her a great favor in becoming physically close?"

The sound of Sue's humming as she neared the door, carrying a tray, interrupted the conversation. She beamed as she set the tray on Johnsy's lap and then stood back, her hazel eyes dancing, and asked, "Is there anything else you need?"

"No," Johnsy said in a small voice, eyeing Tilda warily, "Thank you, Sue, she answered, giving her friend a tiny, appreciative smile. "This is all I need."

"Sue, dear," said Tilda, walking closer to where Sue stood, the three of them forming a natural triangle, "Could you find someone to send a message to my home that I'm ready to return? My driver is just waiting for my summons."

"Oh, I'll take care of it," said Sue with a little hand flap. "You've been so helpful. We're both grateful, aren't we, Johnsy?" The blonde head nodded carefully.

"I could use some fresh air," Sue continued, "In fact, we all could." She moved to the window to partially open it, allowing the now gentle breeze that crept in to improve the air quality, if not the tension in the room. "Can I get you anything while I'm out?" she asked, looking down at Johnsy.

"No, really, I'm fine," Johnsy assured her with another smile.

"Alright then," Sue said, sounding more cheerful than she had in weeks. "Tilda, can you stay with her while I'm gone? She stood by Johnsy's bed, and squeezed her hand.

Tilda gave a tight nod, controlling her jealousy with difficulty.

Sue grabbed her cape and left, oblivious to the hostile stare between the other women. "I won't be gone long."

Tilda poured more water from the kettle into Johnsy's cup and sat down in the chair again. Johnsy tried to look unaffected by the older woman's imposing presence, asking as she chewed the bread, "Is there something else you wanted to say to me, Miss James?"

"Mrs.," Tilda corrected her. "I want to make sure that you understand the distinction. _I_ love Sue. I love her passionately, the way she always hoped you would."

She surveyed Johnsy. "You look a sight right now, but I can see where you would have been very pretty and irresistible to her when you were both younger. You realized in accepting a marriage proposal that it was time to end that schoolgirl infatuation. Let Sue do the same, whether or not your young man comes back to you."

Johnsy blew at the top of her reheated drink, watching the tiny, filmy ripples she created. She didn't think she could ever like Matilda James, but she understood her and that she had Sue's best interests at heart, just as Johnsy, herself did.

"I will do everything I can to make myself well so that Sue won't feel that she needs to nurse me," Johnsy declared, repeating her promise to Benita. "And I won't do anything to encourage her to think of me as more than a friend, even if I never see George again and live the rest of my life in loneliness. Is that what you mean, Mrs. James?"

"Tilda," Sue called from the front door, "Could you come here, please?"

Tilda rose and hurried out of the room to see what had caused Sue's voice to take on that note of panic again. Johnsy, not yet well enough to detect the edge in her friend's cry, turned her attention to her food, the last leaf, and, more wistfully, thoughts of her 'young man'.

"I thought you were leaving," Johnsy observed when Tilda returned to the room without Sue.

"Well, I'm not," said Tilda abruptly. "My staff will be coming later with lunch for you and a bathtub."

"A tub, really?" Johnsy's excitement at that news couldn't be missed and Tilda began to see her charm.

She smiled a little in spite of herself. "Yes," she said, pulling the curtains at the window closed, ostensibly to block the sun, and removing the tray with the now empty plate from Johnsy's lap. "So you should sleep right now. After your bath we're going to begin walking around the house a little."

"Where's Sue?" Johnsy asked, lying back on her pillow and yawning.

"She had things to do."

"Like what?" Johnsy closed her eyes, as she queried Matilda.

"Don't ask so many questions if you want that bath."

Johnsy rolled over and was soon asleep. She shivered and Matilda went to close the window. She looked at the tree, its branches and flaws exposed completely, then the ground beneath it. She shook her head and sighed.


	17. Chapter 17

For the next few days, Johnsy did everything that Sue and Tilda told her. She ate; she walked around the house for exercise and took her medicine. Her reward was a daily bath in the portable, over-sized copper tub that Tilda provided.

"I'll never live without one of these again," she said, luxuriating in the hot water after her morning stroll to the parlor and back. Tilda smirked, again seeing the appeal in the younger woman. She was caring for her that day because, as Johnsy had been told, Sue had to return to work.

"You do seem to enjoy a bath," Tilda stated the obvious.

"It's like a religious experience," Johnsy confirmed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back in the water.

The older woman snickered as she said, "Well, while you're worshiping, I'll be in the kitchen, baking a cake."

"A cake?"

Tilda blushed, explaining, "It's for my husband's birthday. I make him one every year."

Johnsy laughed out loud, with the knowledge that Tilda was in love with her roommate. "So Sue will be with me tonight," she teased.

Tilda stood in front of the tub with her hands on her hips. "I will rip out each one of your golden locks," she threatened.

"I'm not tangling with you, Tilda," Johnsy answered with a mischievous smile. "I want a man…one in particular," she added, looking over to the table by her bed, where her drawing of George sat. Her eyes moved to outside the window and the only leaf left on the maple tree, thinking again of his promise that he'd be back to her before the last leaf fell.

Tilda shook her head. _It's been a month since he's been gone, _she said to herself. _She's going to have to face the truth soon_. But that wasn't the only difficult thing for her to hear. She continued aloud, "I'll leave the door open so I can hear you if you need anything."

"Leave the door open? What about Behrman?" Johnsy asked.

Matilda sighed. "He isn't here but…we'll raise the screen for you," she said, lifting the framed curtain from its slot on the top of the tub.

Perfectly satisfied now, Johnsy called, "Thank you, Tilda," as her reluctant caretaker left the room.

She sank in the hot water again, her natural sensuality evident, as she enjoyed her soak. "Mmmmm," she murmured, bending one long, shapely leg to lift from the water and rest it on the other end of the tub.

"Now that's a sight to look forward to seeing the rest of my life," said the deep, familiar voice from the open doorway.

"Georgie?" she exclaimed, sitting up in the bath so quickly that water splashed on her screen.

He gawked at her silhouette through the curtain. "Yes, Johnsy," he said, swallowing hard, "I'm back."

Her breathing increased with her excitement. She resisted the urge to stand and greet him with open, wet arms. His sense of decorum led him to say, rather reluctantly, "I shouldn't have surprised you; I'll wait outside until you're finished."

"No, please don't go, Georgie," she wheedled. "There's a chair on the right side of the door by the desk. You can sit there."

With a deep exhale, George went to sit in the chair where his view of her shadow wouldn't be so blatant, giving at least a semblance of propriety. He placed his gray silk top hat on Sue's neat stacks of books and papers on the desk.

Johnsy peered around the end of the curtain's frame for a surreptitious glance of his elegant figure in a light gray suit with cutaway coat. "How is your mother?" she asked. "Was there trouble in California?"

"Mama's fine," he answered. "She's heart broken, of course, but she has good friends and she's a strong woman. She was eager for me to return to you."

"Then, where have you been, Georgie?" Johnsy turned her back to the screen and slowly swayed back and forth, as she splashed water on herself.

He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes glued to the curtain, intoxicated also by the heavy scent of lavender from the bath. "In a delirious state in Kansas City," he said with irony, rubbing the back of his neck.

She turned her head slightly and he saw her profile balanced on her long, Grecian goddess-like neck. "What?"

George crossed his legs and attempted to sit back, circling a spatted foot in a pretense of relaxation. "I under-estimated the power of your kiss."

"What do you mean?" She turned onto her stomach and made blowing noises on the surface of the water, kicking her bent legs in the air.

"Did I hear voices?" Tilda asked, returning to the room.

"Tilda, this is Georgie and vice-versa," Johnsy said lazily, sliding back and forth in the tub.

"Miss…" George said, bowing in a gentleman-like manner.

"Mrs….James," said Matilda, extending her hand with equal etiquette.

"Tilda's a friend of Sue's," Johnsy explained, as she turned again, the splashing sounds contributing to the atmosphere, helping to assure George's undivided attention. "Sue had to go back to work today, so Tilda's staying with me and baking a birthday cake for her husband," she continued, like a little girl, reporting everything she knew.

George cocked a questioning eyebrow at Tilda and she nodded significantly. "Well, I'll leave the two of you alone then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr…"

"…Martin," said George, walking closer to kiss her hand. He whispered. "Does she know what she's doing?"

Tilda turned her head and saw Johnsy now sitting back, raising her legs in the air and caressing them with her hands. "Of course she does."

George grinned and moved his chair directly in line with the screen, deciding to fully enjoy her show.

"What were you saying about my kiss?" prompted Johnsy, now turned facing the screen with her arms raised over her head and alternately lifting her shoulders.

"You were still contagious," George explained, not taking his focus off of the curtain. "I had to get off the train in Kansas City. I checked into a hotel and summoned a doctor. The fever went to my head and I lost all sense of who I was or anyone I knew."

"Awww," she said solicitously, "I'm sorry you were sick. How long did it last?"

"A little over a week," he stated.

He saw her head tilt as she asked, "Then…why have you been gone so long?"

George sighed and looked down. "To be honest with you, Johnsy, I needed some time to think."

"About what?"

He looked at the screen again, which was now blank, as Johnsy leaned back in the tub, very still. "I knew I loved you," he said. "There's never been a question about that. But asking you to marry me the way I did was...rash."

Johnsy had her arms crossed over her chest, nervously wringing the sponge between her hands.

"If I could have courted you normally, it would have been some time before I asked, even though I inevitably would have, but the situation wasn't normal. I found you ill and weak and needing me, and then learned about you and Sue…"

Johnsy squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to cry.

"So after I got over being sick, I started thinking about that more than I had let myself when I was with you," George said softly, separating his legs and resting his arms on them as he leaned forward. If he stretched out his hand, he could have touched the screen.

_I'm going to lose him, _Johnsy said to herself. _He is disgusted with me, just like I was afraid of._

George turned away from his view of her as he said, "I can't think like a woman, Johnsy. It's possible that another woman, such as Sue, can please you more than I could because she can think like you."

She barely allowed herself to breathe, as she listened for any nuance or tell-tale indication in his speech of his conclusions, preparing herself for the heartbreak.

He looked back toward the tub. "I decided though that I had to try. Do you remember when I told you you're worth a little rejection? You're also worth a lot of effort. I'm not conceding you to Sue or anyone else. I'll do anything to prove that I can make and keep you happy."

She sighed in relief and reached for her satin robe. "I don't want a woman, Georgie," she said, rising from the water and stepping out. "I don't want any man." She rounded the corner of the screen, standing in her robe with her wet hair and a look of submission. "I only want you."

George rose from the chair and took two strides to reach her and sweep her into his arms.

"I love you," she said, looking up at him, "I wish I knew that when we were seventeen, but you know how flighty and fanciful I've always been."

"Johnsy," he said with his voice muffled by her hair, "It's one of the most lovable things about you. More than anything I've already told you, you have to know you're worth waiting for. I've waited since we were ten and this time, I'm going to do it right." He reached two fingers into his waistcoat pocket, as he dropped to his knees and looked up at her. "Joanna June Sinclair, will you marry me?" He held up a gold ring with a solitaire diamond.

She smiled down at him. "Giorgio Prescott Martino," she said dramatically, (his forehead wrinkled in amused query) "Yes, I'll marry you." She pulled him up to stand next to her and he slipped the ring on her finger. "And I can't wait to be your wife," she said with her most seductive smile, slipping her lavender-scented arms around his neck.

George responded with vigor, pressing his mouth on hers as he held her in eager arms. His face became damp from her hair, as he kissed her the way he had always dreamed, until he became aware of the rattle in her breathing. "That's enough, Johnsy. You're not well yet."

"I'm well enough," she said, trying to hide her shivering and loosen the collar of his shirt.

He reached for a towel. "No," he sighed, rubbing her wet head, "I won't risk setting you back again. You didn't keep your promise to me. You were supposed to be well when I returned. What happened, Johnsy?"

She looked down with a sheepish expression. "I had a relapse after falling asleep outside."

"And then…?"

She laid her head on his chest and whimpered. "You were gone so long, Georgie. I thought you didn't love me after all. And breathing…hurt. Eating hurt, even crying hurt. I just didn't want to do any of it anymore if I wasn't going to be with you."

He held her close, hating himself for making her doubt him.

Johnsy raised her head and smiled. "But I knew everything was going to be alright when I saw your leaf."

He looked at her, bushy black eyebrows knitting with his question. "My what?"

"Your leaf," she repeated, leading him by the hand to the window and pointing at the tree. "You said you'd be back before the last leaf fell, and that one stayed when all of the others were gone. So I knew it was telling me that you'd be back."

George scratched his head and looked even more confused, as he saw the leaf, probably the only one still on any tree in the Village. Because of his delirium and concerns back home, he'd forgotten the impassioned promise he'd made to her until she just mentioned it.

"I've been so good since then, Georgie. I've eaten and exercised and done everything the doctor told me. I've lived for you," she added, soft as her skin from her bath oils, as she slid her arms around his waist.

He kissed her again. "I never meant for you to feel abandoned. My office was supposed to look in on you and give you messages from me. I had that courier, who was late getting the message to Sue, fired by telegraph while I was still on the train." He shook his head in frustration. "The telegraph strike, my getting sick, your relapse…it was a series of bad events that would probably never occur again all together." He sighed as he raised his hand to the side of her face and stared into her eyes. "But together, they made you so unhappy, made you doubt me. I'm so sorry, darling."

She laid her damp head on his chest and he held her tight enough to ward off post-bath chills, then led her away from the window to the folding privacy screen in the corner. "You dress and I'm going to have a word with Mrs. James. I'll come back in when you're finished."

He found Matilda, not naturally nor habitually domestic, in the over-heated, flour-dusted kitchen. Strands of damp hair drooped from her careful updo and she was dabbed with chocolate batter. "Does she know?" he asked her.

Tilda shook her head and wiped her sweaty brow. "Sue was too upset herself to tell her anything. She didn't want Johnsy to become discouraged again."

"Geoor-gie," Johnsy called in a sing-song from the room in front of them, "I'm dressed now. You can come ba-ack."

He couldn't keep from smiling.

Tilda shooed him out of the kitchen. "Watch her while I make my cake. I suppose you and Sue can fight later over who will tell her what."

a/n _**What does everyone know that Johnsy doesn't? Will she and George be happy together? Will Sue stay with Tilda? Where's Behrman? This story is continued on the following site. Just copy/paste and remove the spaces. If anyone has problems reading or voting there, please PM me. Thanks, Vera**_

_** www .swoonreads m/ the-last-leaf**_


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